FW 1946: UXB
by Wolseley37
Summary: In post-war London tensions are rising: between Foyle and his MI-5 superiors, who expect him to ignore the law, between Sam and her far too busy husband, MP Adam Wainwright, and even between two close colleagues whose new roles create a different personal dynamic.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** FW 1946: UXB  
**Characters:** Foyle and Sam, Andrew, and Adam  
**Summary:** In post-war London tensions are rising: between Foyle and his MI-5 superiors, who expect him to ignore the law, between Sam and her far too busy husband, MP Adam Wainwright, and even between two close colleagues whose new roles create a different dynamic.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters in Foyle's War were created by Anthony Horowitz. Just borrowing them. No infringement is intended.  
**Feedback & Reviews:** Always gratefully appreciated

* * *

Chapter 1

Sam Wainwright leant against the closed front door of her pre-fab home, listening as the car drove away, and couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face. What must he be thinking? She couldn't quite believe what she'd just done. Yet, there was really nothing remarkable about it - it had simply been a momentary slip, that was all. She was a married woman now, and it was just a part of her daily routine. Perfectly understandable.

Still smiling to herself, she carried her shopping into the kitchen to drop it on the table, then washed her hands at the sink, gazing out the window at the construction site of another new home next door. She considered how to prepare the supper for herself and Adam, given the continuing shortage of anything resembling protein in the shops. She missed those times when Mr. Foyle used to bring them a fresh trout or two at Adam's guesthouse in Hastings.

Her smile slowly faded as she contemplated the fact that she had been married for more than ten months, yet somehow this still didn't feel like her 'real' life. She was almost used to the idea, adjusting to being in this new house, with new expectations and unfamiliar responsibilities.

Yet she hadn't really understood that something was missing until that day, a few short weeks ago, when she was walking with Professor Fraser and Dr. Hoffman - and she had seen Mr. Foyle across the courtyard, just standing there, waiting for her to notice him. He'd been away, in America, for many months, and she hadn't even known he'd returned, let alone that he was in London. The sudden surge of joy she'd felt, unlike anything she had yet experienced with her husband, had surprised her, and then confused her, and she'd found herself behaving towards him in a reserved, almost shy, manner. And, of course, she knew he was the one person who would be likely to see the change in her, a change no one else seemed to have noticed.

Soon after that meeting he had got it all out of her, the medical difficulties she'd had.

But because of the investigation he was involved with for the Security Service, she had lost her job, and so she took the opportunity to bully Mr. Foyle into taking her on again, as his assistant. She could never have spoken to him that way during the War, as his driver, and she had quite enjoyed (for reasons she didn't wish to examine too closely) calling him onto the carpet - "_If you'd been straight with me in the first place...!_" - and hearing him apologise to her.

In the past two months they'd worked on several investigations together. Sam was aware of a power shift between them now - he had all but relinquished his authority over her, and she had ascended nearer to his level, owing to her maturity and married state - leaving them more as equal colleagues, really, other than his far greater experience and wisdom.

And now they were working together again, and all was right with the world.

Except, of course, it wasn't.

But she was quite certain what had happened just now had nothing to do with her present marital difficulties. ..._Did it?_

* * *

Christopher Foyle negotiated the busy traffic on Peckham Road as he made his way north by northwest back to Mayfair. Sam had never asked him outright where he was staying in London, now that he'd left his hotel, so he hadn't lied, really, when he told her it wouldn't take him out of his way to drive her home. He preferred to spend time after work driving her to her new prefabricated house in Peckham West - perhaps payback for her years of driving him during the war - rather than go straight to his temporary accommodation.

He was using his brother-in-law Charles Howard's room at the _Naval and Military Club_ in Piccadilly, nearly around the corner from Curzon Street, the location of the Security Service office. The "In and Out," as the Club was known for the signs on its two entry gates, was luxurious and prestigious, and he felt quite out of place among the uniformed officers, many of whom were still on active duty. But his own Club,_ The Flyfishers'_, had been bombed in '41, and it was difficult to get a room in their leased and shared premises at the present time. Though he had spent a few hours there of an evening or on his day off.

He could, of course, have stayed at the _Special Forces Club _where some of his Intelligence colleagues were members, but that held no attraction for him at all. He'd have to get something sorted out, on a more permanent basis, if he were to continue in London and in this position with MI-5 - _if_.

He didn't much care for the work so far - each case revealed more of the same double-crossing, deceptions, outright corruption and high-level lies that had led him to resign from the Police. And now there was the additional element of the entire Service believing themselves to be above, or entirely separate from, the rule of law. He couldn't even trust Miss Pierce, the person who had ostensibly recruited him into this shadowy realm. That they had approached him as they had, hiring him essentially under duress, threatening him with the American State Department over the Howard Paige affair, should have been his first clue as to what the job would be like.

And now this new case. The thought of meeting with the Nazi Officer, Karl Strasser, turned his stomach. It was yet another decidedly murky and distasteful example of a post-war coalition of convenience - the Government cooperating politically with the Soviets on their annexation of Poland, then the Security Service collaborating secretly with ex-Nazis to spy on the Soviets - a collaboration that his new employer had no qualms about entering into, apparently.

The only saving grace in the situation was that he had Sam back. Well, Mrs. Wainwright, as he reminded himself to think of her.

Approaching Vauxhall Bridge, he put his gloomy preoccupation aside, and couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from hitching upwards in an amused smile, pondering, again, what she had just done. Of course, it had meant nothing: they'd arrived at her street; he'd gotten out to retrieve her shopping from the car boot. Sam had been rummaging through her handbag to find her key. He'd walked with her up the path, remarking on the groundwork for another pre-fab home next door, and handed over the net bag. Rather distractedly she had thanked him and said good-bye, then quickly leaned in close... and kissed him - a wifely sort of peck on the cheek.

He'd... been a little surprised, of course, and he saw that she was suddenly aware of what she'd absent-mindedly done, but chose not to draw attention to it, turning away to put her key in the lock. He'd forgotten to say good-bye, rather nonplussed, as he turned away and walked back to the car. But in thinking about it as he drove off, he had decided it was nothing to be concerned about, simply a little mistake. A very pleasant, charming mistake. Wouldn't happen again. ..._Would it?_

* * *

As Sam prepared the mock fish cakes, made of beans and rice with a little anchovy paste, and a ginger cream for afters, using tinned evaporated milk and powdered gelatin, she made herself think about Adam and what his day might have been like. Parliament had risen for the summer, so he'd not yet sat in the House as MP for Peckham West. But he was terribly busy. He had been given a position as Secretary to a Cabinet Minister, had been studying hard to learn the parliamentary system, he worked in his constituency office, and he attended lots of meetings about -, well, she wasn't exactly sure what. Just as she wasn't sure about the sort of work he'd done during the war - he couldn't discuss it, even with her, because he'd signed the Official Secrets Act. It left rather a large void in their evening conversations, when they had one.

But he seemed to love what he was doing now - it was important work, and she would support him in whatever way he needed. Only, it seemed he didn't need her very much, and when he did, it was mostly just to stand by his side at a public event and smile and look proud of him. She was rarely asked for her opinion, or to do anything useful. She didn't want to become one of those wives who pushed in and got rather strident to make themselves heard. But surely there was some way she could help him.

And so, when Adam had mentioned the man from Devizes with the complaint about his appropriated land, she'd decided to try to find out about the land evaluator for him. She had taken an opportunity to ask Charlotte how she might go about locating him. Because surely there could be more to their marriage than her simply waiting for him to come home every evening. Though Adam _had_ already cautioned her not to interfere.

It wasn't like that with Mr. Foyle - he... made room for her. He welcomed her opinion, asked for it, treated her like a true partner. They were a team. The work they did together was also important, but on a different scale to Adam's; whether larger or smaller she wasn't sure.

Certainly neither of them enjoyed the deceptions and lies surrounding this new job, but by rooting out double agents, spies and traitors, they hoped they were contributing something useful to a rather troubled post-war Britain.

As she prepared the gelatin, her mind wandered over the events that had brought them to London last June, when she'd met Adam. The events to do with the mysterious, and very dangerous, Russian House.

Mr. Foyle hadn't even blamed her for nearly getting him killed by that Soviet assassin. They'd had a mad race through the streets, and hidden in a disused air raid shelter, but when the man had followed them in she'd found the other exit was locked and they were trapped. As they heard his footsteps approach, Mr. Foyle had taken hold of her wrist to edge her around to the other side of the column they were hiding behind, and then had firmly but gently pushed her away as he confronted the gunman. She shuddered as she recalled that moment. It seemed his last words to her would have been a quietly disappointed and resigned, "This wasn't a very good idea, was it?"

Later he'd apologised to her for involving her in such danger, and she'd brushed it off, but truthfully, all she'd wanted to do was to wrap her arms around him and hold him close, to reassure herself that he was all right. But that was impossible, of course. Sam could count on one hand the times they'd even accidentally had any physical contact -_Oh, lord! _Why was she thinking of that?!

"Back to Adam, Mrs. W!" she admonished herself, and brought her attention back to the fish cakes - well, mock fish cakes. And... her 'mock' marriage. 'Oh dear.'

* * *

Foyle found a parking stall in the Club's own lot, for once, and walked in through the rear entrance, but then, after a dispirited glance around, kept walking, past the well-appointed lounge and the porter's desk, until he was out the front door and on the pavement. He really couldn't face the dining room again, not tonight. It was a warm evening, he had no appetite as yet, and he felt like a stroll on the Embankment. There was something in looking out over water that helped to order one's thoughts, and if he couldn't look out over the Channel, then the Thames would have to do.

After a brisk easterly walk along The Mall, a reverse turn onto Whitehall and through Horse Guards Avenue - there still being bomb damage near Richmond Terrace - he reached the western end of the Victoria Embankment and started east. He rather felt like running, to clear his head and expend some pent up energy, but that would be an odd thing to do, in a public place, in the city. Who would do that?

He lengthened his stride and quickly passed under the Charing Cross Station bridge, then the Waterloo Bridge, and only slowed his pace somewhat as he approached Blackfriars, finally stopping, leaning on the railing, to contemplate the slow-flowing, grey river. Still a muddy grey in the sunshine, he noted - unlike the Channel, sparkling blue on a clear day viewed from the Hastings waterfront, or up at the Castle. He doubted any fish worth keeping could survive in this part of the river.

After some minutes of following the movements of various watercraft, he found himself staring at the still-standing OXO Tower on the south bank with a resentful sort of irritation. It seemed to mock him with the ersatz life he'd led for the past six years: beef tea instead of beef, police work instead of war work, and this so very restrained yet vital friendship with a woman he - loved. There, he'd said it. If only to himself. Of course he loved Sam, how could he not?

But she'd been far too young, and quite forbidden, when she'd turned up, like a beam of sunshine, at the Station in her MTC uniform at the start of the War. Now she was just as forbidden, as a married woman. She had matured beyond her years during the War, as many young women had, taking on roles never tried before - never permitted, really.

Working with her now, post-war, it was different. She was more of a colleague, in many ways. And there was, he had noticed, more of an open frankness between them, starting with her perfectly correct challenge to his decision not to be forthright with her when he began investigating her connection to Miss Pierce's fictitious 'Eternity Ring.'

But he had seen instantly that there was something wrong, and when Sam had explained that the grim sadness he'd seen in her was because of a failed pregnancy - not because she was a spy - he'd so badly wanted to gather her into his arms and comfort her. But that was impossible, of course. And she told him she hadn't yet discussed it with Adam? Was the man blind, not to notice the change in her?

In fact, she'd given out a number of indications that her home life was not everything she had imagined it would be, with Adam working long hours, late nights out with his Labour cronies, and so preoccupied with his new career. In the car one day she'd even let slip a remark that he wasn't 'doing his bit' to help start a family, at least not very often. Foyle's usual sympathetic response - "How can I help?" - was on the tip of his tongue, but that would really have been crossing the line, and not respectful of her difficulties.

Speaking of which - the line - was, he'd noticed, being approached occasionally by Sam. He certainly didn't encourage it, did nothing to invite it, yet wasn't about to remark on it or _show_ that he noticed it, as that would seem rather prudish on his part. Yet there were moments - Sam brushing against his arm when reaching for a file, resting her fingers on his shoulder as she set a cup of tea on his desk, or just the other day in the crowded main office, after he'd given her a research request, she'd stopped him walking away with a hand laid briefly on his chest - over his heart, to be precise - to tell him of the dispatch rider. And this evening, that little kiss; ...even if it was a mistake. Well, he reasoned, she was accustomed to more physical contact with a man now, as a married woman, in a way she hadn't been before. It meant nothing; though it _was_ a change. He'd just have to adapt.

But as he was, now, aware of it, it gave rise, involuntarily, to thoughts, to wishes, he had no business entertaining.

With an unhappy sigh Foyle pushed away from the railing and turned back to walk into the city, in the direction of the present location of _The Flyfishers' Club_. An hour in the library, perhaps another hour at one of the fly-tying benches after dinner, would fill his evening more satisfactorily than any of his other options.

tbc...

* * *

**Author's note:** From the website of The Flyfishers' Club ~

"To join The Flyfishers' Club is to become a member of one of the country's most friendly, welcoming, diverse, interesting, knowledgeable and entertaining fly fishing fraternities.

The Flyfishers' Club was founded in 1884. The Club is constituted as a social club for gentlemen interested in the art of flyfishing and for the study and furtherance of subjects and issues of interest to flyfishermen. It shall be a private members' club owned by its Ordinary Members and Honorary Life Members.

During the 120 and more years of its existence, the Flyfishers' has had a number of homes. It first moved into rooms of its own in the Arundel Hotel in 1888, then to No. 8 Haymarket in 1889 and thence, in 1907, to its own premises in Swallow Street, Piccadilly, where it remained until evicted by enemy action in 1941. Since then it has leased premises in several other London clubs, moving on when they proved less resilient than the Flyfishers'."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Adam finally did turn up, late in the evening, long after she'd unhappily put the prepared supper away in the icebox, after she'd spent the lonely hours scouring the paper for some entertainment they might be able to afford, and after she was already in bed, reading. He had come in quietly, but once he realized she was awake, seemed strangely energetic, not exhausted as she would have expected. He carried on a conversation from the bathroom,

"Sorry, darling, I know this is unfair, but - tell you what - why don't you join me for lunch tomorrow? Bring a picnic, and I'll show you what we're working on."

She frowned to herself,  
"I'm... working, too, Adam. I can't just - not show up - at _my_ job."

"Well, really, one day won't matter, will it? You said there are plenty of other girls in the office."

"But, I'm helping Mr. Foyle with a case just now, it's rather important, actually, it's to do with a former -."

"Someone else can fill in for you, surely." He walked into the bedroom to hang his suit in the wardrobe, and flung his other clothes towards the laundry basket. His dismissive attitude was becoming a little trying, Sam felt.

"You could bring me some of that nice chutney you made, darling. That turned out well. Something cold from the larder. And a thermos bottle of tea."

He stood at the end of the bed, pulling on his pyjama top, expecting her agreement.

Staring up at him she replied with controlled exasperation,  
"Adam! I'm not bloody Patience 'Boo' Brand, you know, turning up with a WVS tea wagon whenever it's wanted!"

He laughed, getting into the bed, not noticing her hurt expression,  
"I don't know why they stopped those. All right, I'll muddle along without you. Besides, you'll soon be able to join me on any day, once you resign," and rolled on his side facing away from her.

"Good night, then, Sam."

He reached out and turned off the lamp, leaving her staring into the darkness.

* * *

Sam arrived at work first the next morning; she'd caught an earlier bus because Adam had woken her with his clatter going out the door. He really was keen to be an effective MP; more keen than to share breakfast with his wife, apparently - his wife of _less_ than a year.

The building was quiet as hardly any other staff had arrived, so she went in to the employee kitchen, made a pot of tea, and sat at a corner table looking at yesterday's newspaper again. When the tea had steeped, she poured herself a cup and was just turning back when Mr. Foyle walked in. She'd been so preoccupied in her disappointment with Adam that she hadn't prepared herself to face him.

Luckily, they took their tea the same way - milk, and one sugar if it was on - so she held the cup out to him,

"Good morning, sir. Tea?" She said, trying for brightness but coming up short, and feeling it was a good thing she really _wasn't_ expected to be Patience Brand this morning.

Also luckily, he took it from her hand with merely a raising of an eyebrow, and she was able to turn away to pour a second cup, and compose herself. She quickly decided the best thing to do was simply not to mention that little slip of last night, pretend it hadn't happened.

"...Morning, Sam. You're early."

She gave an inarticulate hum in the affirmative.

He saw her handbag at the corner table and sat down there, his back to the wall, watching and waiting for her to join him. When she did, head down and eyes focused on her tea, it was obvious to him that things at home had not improved.

But it really wasn't his place to draw her into a confession of her marital troubles. He was, in effect, still her boss. He could offer her time off, though he didn't see how that would help. Unwilling to intrude, yet unable to discount their friendship, he kept his thoughts to himself. They drank their tea and sat together in silence.

Yet it distressed him to see her so downcast, so - hopeless. Sam, of all people, deserved to be happy. With her first wedding anniversary yet to be celebrated, clearly she was not.

Several long minutes passed, and after much worrying of his cheek and deliberation on his part, he reached across to her hand resting on the table and covered it with his own. A simple gesture of friendship, of support, that was all he'd meant.

She didn't meet his eyes, staring at the newspaper instead, but bit her bottom lip, and after another half-minute she turned her hand over and held his, acknowledging his sympathy.

While very moved by the comfort of his warm touch - the very first from him as she well knew - Sam nonetheless resolved she must not discuss her unhappiness with Mr. Foyle any more. It wasn't proper. She must do better at keeping it to herself - put on a brave face, stiff upper lip; it was bound to improve.

And in the next instant she heard herself saying, in a low voice,  
"I should have gone to America with you."

Just at that same moment one of the girls from the research department clattered into the room, not seeing them in the corner, and dropped her bag on another table.

They drew back their hands, but Foyle stared at Sam, his eyes registering a worried, even pained reaction to her words.

She stood up to carry her cup to the sink.

"Good morning, Gloria. Another day..."

"...Another dollar, as the Yanks say. Oh, good morning, Mr. Foyle. Well, how did your fish cakes turn out, Sam? Did Adam enjoy them?"

"He would have, if he'd come home to eat them." She couldn't stop herself from glancing back at Mr. Foyle, and so added a loyal wife's defending clause, "He's very busy, preparing for the opening of Parliament."

She washed her cup and began drying it with the tea towel.

"Gosh, that's four nights in a row."

"Well, he's just hired an assistant for his parliamentary office. Someone he used to work with during the war. That should help."

"I do hope things settle into a better routine for him soon."

"I'm sure it will. He's new to it all - there's bound to be a period of adjustment."

Sam turned around with a brave smile, but Mr. Foyle was gone.

tbc...

* * *

**Historical Note:**

Patience 'Boo' Brand was a member of the Women's Voluntary Service during the War, a pretty young woman who was featured in a lot of publicity photos to promote the civilian war effort, yet there is little information about who she was, her life and work, to be found on the Internet.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

They worked separately most of the morning, and when they did meet or speak, both maintained a strictly professional deportment.

Sam decided, after her inappropriate remark to Mr. Foyle about America (_'stupid, stupid girl,'_ she berated herself) to continue her clandestine investigation, for her husband, into the Devizes land evaluator, George Gibson. With Charlotte's help, she'd found out where he was living after leaving Wiltshire and his telephone number. If he had been up to something before, Sam reasoned, chances were he was still in someone's pocket.

She was familiar with the process for ordering a wiretap, and thought it wouldn't be suspicious if she made the request in Mr. Foyle's name - well, as long as _he_ didn't find out. But, if he did, surely he wouldn't object to her trying to help her husband! And if she stayed out of his way as much as possible, Mr. Foyle wouldn't have the chance to read the guilt in her face.

Towards midday, Foyle sought her out and asked Sam if she had plans for lunch, but she told him she'd already accepted an invitation from Gloria and a few of the other girls. Which was true, except that she had invited herself to join _them_.

Foyle was glad of that; their company might cheer her more than his own restrained concern. The afternoon passed much the same as the morning, but at the end of the day Sam didn't stop in to his office to ask when he'd be leaving, and when Foyle looked for her in the research department, he found she'd already gone.

He stayed late in his office that evening, reading the files related to his next case. Charlotte stopped in to inform him of the appointment she'd arranged for him with Professor Van Haaren, whose true name was Karl Strasser.

* * *

On his way to his first meeting with the Nazi Officer, Foyle had wondered if he could face the man without being provoked to violence. In the university library, he had held his personal feelings in check, which was his own natural inclination as well as Meyerson's advice, and had got through the interview with only one unnecessary remark - that it would save a lot of trouble if the man threatening Strasser had _used_ his gun, instead of leaving a bullet - and he had ended the meeting as quickly as he could.

The next morning he had been called to the German's hostel regarding another perceived threat - a sunflower left in his room. Foyle recognised at once that this would be the crucial clue in the case - it was too unusual. Then that afternoon someone had taken a shot, several shots, at Strasser, while Foyle had been with him. A lone gunman, Foyle had only got a glimpse of him, and he'd had no inclination to try to pursue the man. Wished he'd been a better shot, in fact.

By all standards of justice Strasser should be standing before the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg, where the first War Crimes trials were underway. Instead, courtesy of the British Government, he had a new identity and a prestigious career as a university lecturer in Art History, while supplying his expertise on Soviet espionage.

Foyle could see that Miss Pierce would stop at nothing to protect this source of intelligence, and his knowledge of this was inexorably pushing him farther outside of the Service's fraternity, if, indeed, he had ever been in it.

And at the same time he was palpably aware that Sam was withdrawing from him; after two more days of only work-related contact - her taking her breaks with the other women and deliberately leaving at the end of the day without a word, Foyle was certain Sam was avoiding him. He figured he knew why - his sympathy and concern were a burden to her, not a help.

He had expected to lose their friendship to her complete preoccupation with a _happy_ marriage, not the opposite. Painful to him as it was, he knew he must respect her decision, and leave her to sort out her own private matters.

But then he was called in to Meyerson's office, and questioned about a wiretap he'd apparently ordered to be placed on the telephone of a man he'd never heard of. He quickly put two and two together, and diverted further questions by naming a defunct Soviet spy ring, 'Red Five,' as a possible connection. Leaving Pierce and Meyerson puzzling over that, he headed straight to the Research Department to summon Sam to his office. She followed him meekly enough.

Feeling rather a fool for having entertained such romantic notions of self-sacrifice with regard to Sam, as he walked ahead of her in the corridor he considered that, though he'd had her complete loyalty during the War, now her loyalty lay, as it should, with her husband - to the point that she would risk their working relationship, apparently, and perhaps even their friendship.

And he wondered - if he truly no longer had Sam on his side, to put his trust in, then where did that leave him? There'd be no absolutes, no foundation of any sort to ground him in this job - no law to rely on, no allies, no morality but his own - and even that was crumbling around the edges.

After ushering her into his office and closing the door behind her, Foyle crossed the room deliberatively, turned, and settled against the edge of his desk, hands in his trouser pockets,

"Just... refresh my memory about this wiretap I ordered, Sam."

With a furrowed brow and eyes focussed on the floor she said quietly,

"I'm very sorry, sir. I know it was wrong, but I thought if I asked you, you'd refuse."

He raised his eyebrows, nearly amused, waiting for her to look at him. Ordinarily Foyle would have been very irritated by such a statement - it was the logic of a fourteen-year-old - but he knew Sam was..., well, not herself these days. He rubbed his temple with his fingertips,

"What's this all about then? Tell me from the beginning."

She explained what she was trying to do for her husband, and he could clearly see the good intentions underlying the desperately bad judgement. So he surprised her by suggesting that they drive to the address she had discovered for the land evaluator and try to interview him.

Once in the privacy of the car, however, he warned her of the seriousness of her breach of the law, and then admitted he now had to save his own skin to cover the lie he'd just told for her. Foyle was relieved to see her suitably chastened and apologetic.

But he still wished to help her, so they drove on through the outskirts of London, under pleasantly sunny skies, and found George Gibson in the back garden of his house. As they questioned him about the farmland he'd evaluated at double its pre-war value, it was obvious he had something to hide, and he soon warned them off his property; the wiretap, though quite illegal, would no doubt provide some information as to whether Adam's suspicions were justified.

From the passenger seat, driving back to the city, as Foyle listened to Sam chatter on animatedly about how this 'investigation' was going to help Adam, he felt increasingly exasperated with her. Finally he interrupted,

"Sam, do you not remember what I said earlier? If Gibson - or more likely, _his solicitor_ - questions the source of the phone call transcripts, this could all... blow up in your face - and Adam's. There could be very serious repercussions for both of you."

She replied instantly, confidently,

"Yes, I know that, but I'm willing to take the risk. Shouldn't a wife help her husband when he's faced with a difficulty -?"

Foyle shook his head in disbelief,

"You're not hearing me, Sam -. Look, in this job - you have far greater access to private information than the average person, and with it, a responsibility to -"

"But my responsibility is to my husband, first."

"Adam _didn't_ ask you to do this."

"No, but I - I needed to find a way to... I wanted to help him!"

Foyle shut his eyes briefly, noting with dismay that the conversation was going round in circles. Though they were now in the city, not far from the office, he wanted to have this matter settled.

"Sam, pull the car over, please."

She glanced at him with some apprehension, and parked alongside the kerb. Overhead, dark clouds had moved in to block the late summer sun, and it had just begun to rain.

Foyle pushed his hat up on his brow, and spoke gently,

"Perfectly understandable that you want to help Adam in any way that you can. But you _can't_ break the law."

She stared forwards out the windscreen, hands in her lap,

"It seems everyone we work with is breaking the law, every day. At least I'm trying to do some _good_."

"You _don't know_ what the results of your actions will be, Sam - it may not turn out as you'd hope. Please, just... promise me you'll ask me, _consult_ with me, next time you... need help with a problem. We're working together, aren't we?"

"Yes, but I'm trying -." Sam glanced out her side window. "I'm trying to -. I don't know how else to..." She fixed her gaze straight ahead again and lifted her chin,

"You see, when we worked together at the guest house, everything was fine - well, between _us_, I mean. When we stayed at Seven Oaks, we worked together, too. Now, he's _completely_ absorbed in his own work and doesn't seem to need me at all, and I - I'm feeling rather..."

"Sam. It's a different sort of career. Look, ...I'm sure your mother was a very great help to your father in his work in the Church, however, an MP -."

"Yes... I wasn't thinking of my parents." She said quietly, and glanced at him,

"I was thinking of you and me."

Foyle bit the inside of his cheek.

"Well, it's true we had a... _very close_ working relationship. The War... forced, _er_ - brought - people together in extraordinary ways... But, Sam, you were _working for me_; you drew a salary. You can't expect to be involved in Adam's career in the same way."

"His work is so important to him - if I'm not a part of it, then where does that leave me?"

Foyle was beginning to feel this was a conversation she should have with her mother. He was also beginning to feel that the interior dimensions of the Austin were entirely too narrow.

"Well, S-sam..."

She held up a hand, palm towards him,

"No, I know. A happy home life - cooking, gardening, ch-children..." With an effort of will she brought her emotion under control, "What if it's not enough?" She spoke quickly, "Women contributed so much to the War effort, surely we can do as much in the Peace."

"I agree."

"You do?"

At last she looked at him, her eyes lit with gratitude at his understanding response.

Outside a sudden rain shower splattered the car with heavy drops that soon built to a torrent cascading down the glass. He had to raise his voice over the drumming on the roof and bonnet,

"Well, yes. Is... that what you want?"

She took in a long deep shuddering breath,

"I may not have as many options as I'd..." She couldn't finish.

"Sam. _Have_ you talked this over with Adam?"

"I've hardly seen him! It's not something one brings up at the door as he's rushing out -." Tears coursed down her cheeks.

Foyle regretted he'd not taken the driver's seat for the return journey. Sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder with her, with no means of taking action to help the situation, he was increasingly disconcerted.

"Look... We can go straight to Westminster, Sam. You _must_ talk to him. It's important."

"I've tried. I've gone there on m-my lunch break, I've gone - after work -. He's not been at his office, or the Minister's. No one c-could tell me where he was. And then he comes home so late -."

Clearly she was in no state to drive now, and the rain continued battering against the car. She wept freely, head bowed, a hand over her eyes,

"I'm sorry, I- I'll be alright in a-."

Foyle dragged his fingers across his brow, moved by her distress. He overcame his hesitation, turned in the seat, reached across and drew her towards him to rest her head on his shoulder. Lightly stroking her back, he murmured soothing words, gazing upwards, waiting for her to calm.

But he was just then uncomfortably reminded of a similar moment from his past with another young woman - another _married_ young woman - when he hadn't the self-control or maturity or the will to do the right thing. While it had been a completely different set of circumstances, the memory of holding her in his arms, like this, and what had followed, increased his apprehension now.

As Sam's gentle sobs diminished to a few hitching breaths, he felt her hand dip into his inside coat pocket and pull out the handkerchief she knew he kept there. She dried her face, but still rested on him, her forehead warm against his throat. With a last caress across her slender form, he said kindly,

"I'll drive, Sam. Take you home, or Westminster, wherever you like."

And he applied the gentlest pressure on her shoulders to move her upright. But then her other hand curled around the nape of his neck, sending a rush of pleasure through his heart, and as she drew back, eyes nearly closed, suddenly her lips were pressed to his, and - _god forgive him_ - he kissed her back, for just a brief moment, his dear, sweet, forbidden girl.

He pulled away, rather stunned, turning his face aside, but then, unlike that other young woman, Sam came to her senses, alarmed by what she'd done, what she'd inspired him to do, and withdrew the little distance against the driver's side door, speaking in a low rush of words,

"_My god._ I'm sorry, sir. That was wrong of me. It will never happen again. I'll go." And she fumbled for the door handle. He stopped her with a hand on her arm,

"I'll go."

He hardly knew how he'd got out of the car, but an instant later he was on the street walking away, pulling his hat down over his brow, the cold rain splattering on the pavement all around. He called himself every suitable epithet in the book, increasing his stride with each accusation. With no idea of where he was going, he only knew he had to put a significant distance between himself and Sam as quickly as possible.

There was a great deafening thunderclap overhead, the driving rain turned to bullet-like hail, and he quickly fastened the buttons of his overcoat. But the water was running off his hat brim and his shoes were soaked, as the roads were awash from the deluge. Most sensible people had taken cover in doorways and inside the shops and cafés he passed. Eventually he found the door to the _Coach and Horses_ and ducked inside.

tbc...

* * *

**Historical Note:** On July 26, 1946, London experienced a severe thunderstorm and hail, which produced 50 mm of rain in 35 minutes. (I've moved the date of the storm into late August, as it makes a dramatic accompaniment to the scene.) From London-weather dot eu.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

By morning, lying in the bed in his room at the Club, Foyle had gained some calm perspective on the event, and believed Sam would have come to excuse her own actions as much as he did - both hers _and_ his own: she was distraught, lonely, confused, had taken comfort and momentary refuge from her unhappiness - with a friend. And he was a man much like any other - it would have been remarkable if he had _not_ returned her kiss.

But it was certainly a step beyond that mistaken kiss on the cheek she'd bestowed on him last week. _This_ had been intentional, albeit under great emotional upset. Again he had to wonder, did it mean anything? Did she truly harbour some long-suppressed feelings for him? If so, it seemed unlikely they could continue working together in the same way after this - _could they?_

Losing her would inevitably throw into stark relief the emptiness of his own personal life. He really had come to rely on Sam to bring some warmth and humanity into his days, and now he knew he could no longer do that.

Her home life had seemingly become a wasteland to her; he could hardly expect her to remain unchanged, to continue to brighten his days while her own were, presently, so dark. He'd have to let go of their friendship, for the sake of her marriage, and allow her the time and distance to come to terms..., to try to improve things at home.

And so, for the first time in years, and for the first time ever without being ill or needed elsewhere, he didn't go in to work. He actually had no idea whom, at the office, he should telephone - not Meyerson or Pierce - too senior; not Charlotte - too junior, not the Reception Desk. Finally he settled on Valentine, asking him to monitor the Strasser case for the day.

"Just a little under the weather, nothing serious, Arthur."

"Right, well, do take care, old chap. Get some rest."

'Old chap.' Precisely. He _should_ retire; go home to Hastings.

As solitary a life as he'd led these past fourteen years, he'd always had one or two close friends and a circle of professional colleagues he trusted. But his close friends were back in Hastings; and his new colleagues in London were - as Hugh Reid would say - 'a different breed of cat.' He missed his home, the familiarity of the seaside town, the tranquility of the river. There was nothing to keep him in London. He would retire.

Ordinarily, Foyle didn't feel the need of anyone else's counsel, but in this instance, somehow he felt he wanted to hear someone agree with his decision. He would track down his son - see Andrew, and then begin to make the arrangements.

* * *

Sam had eventually recovered enough, from the upset of her confession and the trauma of what she'd done, to drive Mr. Foyle's car back to the Security Service office. Then she had made her way home, and had arrived with a miserable headache that forced her straight to the bedroom to lie down. When she awoke it was dark, the clock read nine-thirty, she was cold and evidently alone in the house. She drew a hot bath and lay there thinking, reviewing their conversation and the event.

Everything Mr. Foyle had said to her had been sensible, comforting, reassuring - everything that a young wife, adjusting to married life, would like to hear from her husband. In contrast, Adam was simply - absent; preoccupied, distracted, unattentive.

But Mr. Foyle perhaps was also correct in saying that the career of an MP was quite different to what she was used to. Adam had been chosen as the candidate, had been elected by the people, not her. Perhaps _she_ was in the wrong - perhaps she _should_ be content to remain at home, leave this rather dangerous, questionable work she was mixed up in, and become 'domesticated.' Study cookery, learn about gardening, vegetable-growing; it wouldn't be too long before they could afford a sewing machine, and if she relaxed and stopped being so anxious, perhaps she would one day be blessed with... Her mind wandered away from these proper resolutions, back to that moment.

She had kissed him... and he _had_ kissed her back, there was no mistaking his response. Yet the memory of it was... unreal, difficult to fix her mind on, it had been so fleeting, almost shocking really, and so forbidden. It _couldn't_ have actually happened, could it? Yet it must have, or he wouldn't have bolted from the car that way. _Oh god._

After her bath she got into bed and tried to sleep again, and when she heard the telltale sounds of Adam tiptoeing in, even later tonight than on previous nights, she pretended she was asleep.

By morning, with a clear head, she knew she must accept her fate, do the right thing and adjust to whatever her marriage would be. As Adam was now receiving his MP's salary and a little more as a Parliamentary Secretary, they didn't really rely on her wages. Perhaps Adam felt she only continued working to amuse herself. She would go in to work, face Mr. Foyle, properly apologise, and offer her resignation. If he wouldn't accept it, then perhaps give in her notice.

But when she arrived at the office, Mr. Foyle's car was where she'd left it, and he was not at work. This troubled her deeply as she was convinced she was the cause of his absence. Inwardly she renewed her commitment to getting back on the right path, and decided to visit Adam at his office in the evening; she would bring him that picnic he'd suggested.

* * *

That evening Foyle met his son at one of the better public houses near Andrew's place. After shaking hands they looked each other up and down, assessing the other's appearance. Each approved of what he saw.

Foyle bought the first round.

"Retire? Are you all right, Dad? Any health problems?"

"Why would you think that?"

"No, you look very well. You've got a bit of colour - been enjoying the warm weather? But, you know... I'd always thought you'd die in harness." He grinned, and took a mouthful of ale.

"Thanks." Foyle rolled his eyes, "No, I feel it's... time. I'm not overly pleased with this work, or living in London..." He swallowed half the contents of his small glass.

"What would you do with yourself? Travel?"

"Well, I'm _persona non grata_ in America. Perhaps Canada, or Australia, some day. But, _er_, first I'd finish writing that book I started. You could find me a publisher."

"Yes, I could. Be your agent? Ten percent?"

"Make it twenty - you might get a pint out of it." He smiled, beginning to feel relieved at having a real plan in place.

"What does Sam say?"

Andrew saw his father's face instantly get that closed off look.

"No opinion." Foyle downed the other half of his scotch and signaled the barman for the same again.

"You've... told her of your plans?"

"Why would you think I'd discuss it with Sam?"

"C'mon, Dad. She's virtually your best friend. After all these years?" He finished his beer as the next round arrived.

Foyle shook his head, but avoided his son's eyes,

"No, no. She's _married_, Andrew; she's living an entirely different life now, compared to wartime. Very little to do with me."

Andrew twitched his lips to one side, exactly the way his father would, interviewing a recalcitrant suspect,

"I can't believe she wouldn't have an opinion. She's always had your best interests at heart."

He answered mildly,

"Well, now she has _other_ interests at heart, _I'd_ imagine - and so should _you_." And sipped his second whisky.

Andrew asked with a warm smile,

"Is she happy?" expecting a quick affirmative.

But his father winced uncomfortably and turned away.

He dropped the smile,

"Isn't she? Dad?"

"It's really not for us to discuss, is it?"

Andrew took a contemplative pull on his ale,

"Gosh. Sam? How could _any_ man, lucky enough to get her, not do _everything in his power_ to make her happy?"

"You're one to talk." Foyle muttered behind his glass.

"It was the _War_, Dad. I was... well, you know."

"Yes, I do. Sorry, that was uncalled for."

Andrew paused in raising his glass, surprised at the apology.

After another swallow of his scotch, Foyle suggested,

"...Why don't you, _er_...?"

"Me? Visit Sam? How could that help?"

"Be her friend? I'm her boss, it's just not on, you know."

"I see." He gave his father a look, "You asked _her_ to cheer _me_ up, and now you want _me_ to-. You know how well that turned out."

Foyle reconsidered, biting the inside of his lower lip,

"No, you're right. We should just leave it."

In the lull, they both drained their glasses.

"Another?" Foyle cocked an eyebrow at his son, then went to the bar and brought back two glasses of _The Glenlivet_.

Andrew tilted his glass to salute his father, but again saw the preoccupied worry in his eyes.

"You're concerned about her, aren't you?"

Foyle winced again, with a slight nod.

"Any idea what the problem is?"

"_Er_... Overwork, it would seem. Late nights, rarely home."

"_Hm_. And not yet married a year...?" He raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and the two men inadvertently exchanged a speculative look that turned awkward.

Andrew changed tack,

"...As I recall, Mum could always time supper to within a minute of you walking in the door, you were that reliable."

"It was important. For both of you."

Andrew grinned at a childhood memory,

"I remember... some days, you'd bring home a paper full of ha'pennies - you'd tell me there were exactly fifty - and you'd throw them in the back garden for me to hunt. Took me ages to find them all, counting out loud so you'd hear in the house - but then you'd always discover the last one in your pocket."

As he smiled at his Dad, he suddenly realized the purpose of the game - to give his parents an hour's privacy - and his jaw fell open.

"Oh."

"Wondered when the ha'penny would drop." Foyle murmured, with a side-long glance.

Andrew shook his head slowly in admiration and smiled down at his glass. The two men nursed their drinks, ruminating on distant memories, until the senior Foyle's thoughts returned to his present concerns.

"...You _really_ don't think you could, _er_...?"

Andrew, surprised, asked gently,

"Dad? ...Is that what this - retirement - is all about? You can't bear to see Sam unhappy; you feel you can't help, so you want to remove yourself from the scene?"

Foyle, a little self-conscious, tilted his head.

"You really care for her." Then, seeing his father's uncomfortable reaction, he conceded, "...Of course you do, it's only natural."

He took a swallow of his whisky, set it down on the table, and became unexpectedly businesslike.

"You know, most men are clueless about what their wives are thinking, present company excepted. Sometimes a word in the ear is all that's needed. Clearly _Sam's_ not the problem: let's go see Adam Wainwright and set him straight."

"Oh..., I don't think _I_ could do that, but you go ahead." He said, his apprehension rising.

"No-no, this is a two-man job. You see, if it was just me, I'd be challenging his honour, and we'd have to fight. With two of us, it's, _er_...it's... It's marital counselling."

"And we're qualified for that, are we?" Foyle squinted, and swallowed his remaining scotch.

Andrew held up his drink,

"One more of these and I'm _eminently_ qualified."

He signaled for the next round.

"For Sam!" He pledged, saluting her in spirit.

His father, despite definite misgivings on this impulse to chivalry, somehow couldn't formulate a clear objection.

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The Foyles, _père et fils_, arrived by taxi at the Members' Entrance to Westminster Palace, as outwardly sober as the average MP. They were rebuffed at the door, until the senior Foyle showed his Security Service badge. Walking through the august halls of power, they had only a vague idea of where to find the new Representative for Peckham West, but eventually were directed to the correct floor. Only a few of the offices were occupied with other late workers, they noticed as they passed by, following the numbers on the doors.

They turned the corner into another of the labyrinthine hallways, only to be surprised at the sight of Sam herself, at the end of the hall, in profile, staring into a doorway, smile fading and transforming into shock, just at the moment when she dropped the picnic basket she was holding. The crash of broken glass brought a head or two craning out of other office doors.

In the next instant she was running towards them, distraught, tears forming, unseeing, until only a few yards separated them. She skidded to a halt, startled, shocked to see Foyle, confused by Andrew's presence, mortified by what she'd just witnessed. She gave an inarticulate cry and pushed past them.

The Foyles were momentarily torn - pursue Sam or carry on? They looked at each other, and the older man gave a quick nod of his head to indicate his son should follow the girl, while he, detective instincts taking over, strode towards the office. Several scenarios flashed through his mind, the least objectionable being suicide, but what he saw through the doorway was, sadly, along the lines of what he expected: a dark-haired, buxom, pretty woman straightening her skirt and buttoning her blouse, and a sweating man hastily fastening his trousers over his shirt-tails. The man was Adam. He was muttering,

"I'll sort this out, Viv, don't worry. I had no idea she'd ever-." He became aware of the figure in the doorway.

The contempt on Foyle's face, as the last trace of self-reproach over the Austin incident faded, was withering.

Adam registered instant guilt, confusion, then indignation, and he went on the offensive,

"What the hell are _you_-?"

Despite his easy stance, Foyle's hands were clenched into fists,

"_I_ came by to invite you for a drink and a quiet chat. Wouldn't have done any good, I see." His sweeping glance encompassed the papers strewn across the desk, the remains of a meal for two, and the woman, who at least had the decency - if you could call it that - to blush with shame.

"Waste of time." He turned on his heel, stepped around the oozing basket, and walked away. A number of the more curious neighbours passed him, heading towards the open door. He heard Adam shout at them to _'sod off'_ and mind their own business.

Foyle found his way out through the Visitors' Entrance and walked north to where they'd come in. There was no sign of the injured party, or his son. He decided he'd trust Andrew to sort something out for Sam this evening - she wouldn't care to see _him_ - and headed to his room at the Club.

* * *

Andrew had a hell of an evening, from that point on. While he hadn't seen what had driven Sam headlong out of the building, he could guess. He'd caught up to her quickly, but only trotted behind her, not wanting to provoke a violent physical or verbal reaction. Once outdoors her pace slowed, but he kept back, walking in her wake, until she turned towards him. Her face was tear-stained and her voice broken with restrained sobs,

"Why on earth were you both _there_? At that _moment_? Why are you here _at all_?"

"We came to have a word with him." He admitted, regretfully. He edged closer, hands deep in his trouser pockets,

"It was _my_ idea to come here tonight, Sam, to speak to Adam. Dad was, well, he was really concerned for you. Bad timing. I'm so sorry."

"No, don't be." She wiped her eyes with the back of a hand, and took in a ragged breath, "...It'll be useful to have a - a witness. Or two - why not?"

Andrew found he could only repeat himself,

"I'm so sorry, Sam." And tentatively moved to stand beside her, holding out his handkerchief.

She took it, and sobbed,

"What will I - tell my - _father_? And my - _uncles_? They'll be so disappointed in me."

Andrew was surprised she'd moved that far along in her grief for her marriage - already past the personal betrayal and on to the wider family and social implications.

He had one eye on the traffic, watching for a cab. Suddenly Sam turned on him again,

"Y_ou_ - and your _father_ - were discussing - _my _marriage? That's...!" She looked up to the darkening sky, again mortified and exasperated. "It's really..."

"You're absolutely right, it's none of our concern, it's just-."

"It's my fault. I should've... hidden it better - that it wasn't working out."

Another surprising remark, Andrew noted.

"- Now I know _why_ - Now we _all_ know why!" She dried her eyes with the handkerchief.

Andrew flagged down an approaching cab. The driver asked,

"Wainwright?"

He helped her in, both realizing it was Adam's taxi, and not caring. Andrew asked,

"Where to, Sam?"

But the driver said,

"Wainwright for Ivydale Road, isn't it?"

"Yes." Sam replied to the driver, then to Andrew muttered, between hitching breaths,

"I might - as well collect - my things, at least. But - I don't know where -."

"Sam, you can have my place, for as long as you need. I'll bunk with a friend."

She nodded, and then, miserable at the thought of leaving her own home, broke down in tears.

"This is - as bad - as - as - being - _bombed!_"

* * *

Sam had collected her clothes, shoes, personal items and her family photos into a suitcase, and they had taken the cab back to Andrew's place. He quickly tidied up, bachelor that he was, and made the bedroom presentable for her. He fixed her a pot of tea, and offered something stronger, which she refused.

While she went to use the bathroom, he stepped down the hall to phone his father at the Club, to let him know Sam was with him, at his flat. When his father pointed out the legal implications, in terms of respondents and co-respondents in potential divorce hearings, Andrew clarified that he'd be staying down the street with a friend.

"Good. And do tell her not to come in to work." Then added, under his breath, "..._For god's sake_."

Andrew rang off and called his friend, who readily offered his spare room.

It wasn't yet midnight. He was just closing the hall door when Sam emerged from the bathroom, having splashed her face with cold water, but still looking puffy-eyed and miserable.

"Fresh pot of tea - or something to eat?" He asked kindly.

Her voice was still shaky,

"No. Thanks, Andrew. You're working in the morning. _I'm_ working in the morning..."

"Don't worry about that. Dad will cover for you. Stay here, rest. I'll come round later,_ if_ you like."

She looked up at him, wistfully, from her seat on the wingback chair,

"You sounded exactly like your father, just then - he said something like that to me when I was bombed out of my billet. ...He let me stay with him, you know - well, no one was _meant_ to know."

"You... stayed at our house?" Andrew was intrigued. He sat down opposite her on the sofa.

"For a short time, a few days, until they found me another billet." She saw the query in his eyes and hastily added, "...I stayed in _your_ room."

"Well, of course."

He conjured up an image of his father's quiet evenings at home enlivened by the glowing, cheerful young woman Sam had been at the time. Somehow the idea was not entirely impossible. And he couldn't help but see the marked contrast in her now - aside from the effects of this evening's shock, Sam was undeniably worn and tired. It struck him that she had the look of someone who has been grieving, and carrying on regardless. He knew the look, having lived with it for ten years. Yet..., _she_ was newly married.

After a long pause, Sam asked, perplexed,

"Did he... see you tonight... to talk about my _marriage_?"

"No! - Well. Actually... You see, ...he's thinking of retiring, going back to Hastings, because... Well, the truth is, ...because he can't stand by and _see you_ ...unhappy."

She contemplated the cup of tea on her lap with a furrowed brow, then met his eyes for a brief moment, saying quickly,

"Well, I may as well go _with_ him._ I_ don't want to stay in London." And she set down her cup, as if ready to depart at a moment's notice.

Andrew had collected together these surprising, puzzling statements of hers, and was constructing a hypothesis. They glanced up at each other, hesitant to approach what was forming in their minds - his deduction and her nascent relief that he had deduced it.

"Sam..., this is a dreadful time to discuss it, but... Do you... _love_ him...?"

Her cheeks coloured, and her eyes filled with tears again,

"This is the _worst_ time to discuss it."

"..._Do_ you?" He insisted, gently.

In the silence she stared at her folded hands, then gathered her courage and looked across at him,

"Yes. I do, Andrew. Almost from the very beginning. But he was never going to - 'allow it' - was he?" She said very quietly, "I'm sure he thinks I'm... far too much younger."

A few tears coursed down her cheek,

"I mean, obviously he wouldn't consider it, while I was his driver. ...And then, as the War ended, he was leaving for America. I ...sort of... suggested - _asked_ him... to take me with him, but he never really answered me.

"So I thought, well-I'd-best-move-on." Andrew saw her lip tremble at that confession.

She heaved a sigh,

"...And Adam proposed, and I had no reason to refuse him. I am - was... fond of Adam." With fresh hurt in her voice, she muttered as an aside, "...Now I don't know _why_ he ever asked me." She held his handkerchief to her eyes.

"So there it is, unrequited love, of the most foolish," she closed her eyes, "...hopeless kind."

Andrew sat back in his seat, readjusting his world view. He decided to speak his mind,

"Sam. ...I believe... he loves you, too."

She met his eyes for a steady moment, grateful and yet deeply pained, then dropped her gaze and declared,

"That's all very well, but he'll never act on it, will he."

"I suppose not..." Andrew replied, consideringly.

"And he certainly wouldn't take me on, _now_ - another man's cast-off," She suddenly had a view into her future, " - _a divorced woman_." And buried her face in her hands again.

_But Andrew had private information somewhat to the contrary, on that point._

_Before leaving for America, his father had visited him, and sat where Sam was sitting now, and, very sensitively, if briefly, had confessed his early, youthful, wartime affair with a nurse, an unhappily married young woman, wife to a very socially prominent husband, and revealed that there had been a child - an older brother to Andrew - heir to a large estate, whom his father had been forbidden to know or to acknowledge._

_He, of course, with his soul in his eyes, had asked his father,_

_"Did Mum know?"_

_And his father had replied, looking him straight in the eye,_

_"Yes. She knew. _Before_ I asked her to marry me."_

Andrew had yet to meet James Devereaux, and was both anxious and curious about him. However, this news had complicated his understanding of his father's character.

For the second time that evening, or perhaps it was the third, he took control,

"Look, Sam, don't paint the future black just yet. Take things... one day at a time, all right? Promise me you'll just think about the next day, and not beyond that. For tonight, please?"

She looked up at him, reassured and calmed by his sensible advice, and agreed,

"It's rather... Well... Yes, I promise. Thanks, Andrew."

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

It was two days later, in the morning, when Foyle arrived at work and found Adam Wainwright waiting for him outside the Curzon Street office. His appearance was haggard and his manner contrite,

"Mr. Foyle, will you please tell me where my wife is. I need to set things right with her."

"What do you think your chances of doing that are, Adam?"

"I've got to try. Please... tell me where she is."

"No. I will pass on a message. Sam will decide if she wishes to contact you."

"Will you tell her how sorry I am? Tell her I need to see her, talk to her."

"I don't _know_ how sorry you are, Adam, and frankly, I don't think that'll cut it. As I've just said, I _will_ tell her you want to talk with her. Now excuse me, I'm going in to work."

As Foyle moved forward, the desperate man took hold of his arm,

"Is she staying with _you_?"

Foyle summoned all his inner strength to maintain his composure,

"No."

"She's my _wife_. I have a right to know where she is!" On the receiving end of a warning look, he released Foyle's arm and stepped back.

"I'd say you lost that right when you broke your vows." And he left the distraught young man standing on the pavement.

* * *

Around mid-morning Foyle telephoned Andrew at his work and told him of Adam's request, saying he expected to be confronted by him again at the end of the day.

"I'll certainly let Sam know. It's her choice to respond or not."

"Yes. How is she?" Foyle asked, eyes shut tight.

"Pretty shell-shocked, I'd say, Dad. She's having trouble imagining any kind of future for herself. I told her... just to take it one day at a time."

"Good advice. Is there anything she needs? Anyone I could contact on her behalf, anything I could send over to her?"

"You... don't want to visit her?"

Foyle was silent for some moments, then answered,

"It's... too soon. I don't think she'd want to see me. But, _er_, do let her know I asked after her."

* * *

In the evening, stepping out the doors of the office building, Foyle was relieved to find no one loitering about, but as he got into his car he spotted Adam in the front passenger seat of a taxi parked on the opposite side, down the street. With an exasperated sigh he put the car in gear, and decided on the most sensible option - he headed for the pre-fabricated house on Ivydale Road. Better to leave the man at his own door than to draw him into a pointless pursuit through the streets of London.

Foyle leant unhappily against his car in the late afternoon sunshine, hands in his trouser pockets, waiting for the errant husband to arrive, and desultorily surveyed the equipment standing in the next door building site - wheelbarrows, a concrete mixer, and a 'jumping jack,' or 'Paddy's motorbike,' as it was colloquially known, used to compact the earth and hardcore layer of broken bricks under the foundation. The last of a crew of workmen climbed into a lorry and drove away.

The taxi pulled up and he watched Adam pay off the cabbie, then walk over to face him, looking chagrined and annoyed,

"Did you give her my message, - sir?"

"I passed it on, yes."

"What did she say?"

"_I_ haven't spoken to her. If she hasn't telephoned you, perhaps that _is_ her answer."

Adam seemed to fall apart, stared at his shoes, rubbing the heel of a hand into one eye,

"No, it can't be. She's got to understand. She has to let me explain."

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek, irritated and impatient to leave.

"...She doesn't know what I went through in the War. She doesn't know the pressure I was under."

"How's that got _anything_ to do with your complete betrayal of her, Adam, - _really_?" He stood away from the car, ready to circle round to the driver's door.

Adam stared ahead of himself, fingers pulling through his hair,

"Will you just... come into the house, Mr. Foyle? Let me try to explain - you could explain it to her."

"I have _no_ interest in hearing it." And he started to walk.

"No, please! Mr. Foyle. You don't understand!"

Again the taller, younger man stopped him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"...I signed the Official Secrets Act. I'm not allowed to tell anyone about the work I did, how my nerves were-."

Increasingly aggravated, Foyle again attempted to walk past him. In a final plea, Adam revealed his true concern,

"- I can't lose my wife over this. It will ruin my career!"

With that remark, Foyle lost his patience, suddenly took a firm hold of the young man's upper arm and, policeman-like, marched him along the path to the front door. As he growled commands Adam did as he was told.

"Get your key. Open it. Get inside - and face the fact that _you've_ destroyed your marriage, Wainwright. It wasn't the War. It wasn't the bloody Official Secrets Act. It was _you_. Your choice, your loss."

He left the man standing in his own entranceway, and headed back to the car. He heard Adam curse, and as he was halfway down the path, shout after him,

"..._Your gain?_"

Foyle halted, his right hand balling into a fist. But he wouldn't hit the man in his own house, however provoked. He continued on, and heard a loud bang as the door slammed shut.

A foot-fall later, inexplicably, he saw reflected in the windows of his car and the houses across the street a blinding flash of white light, then the window glass in all the houses shattered inwards. Objects flew past him that pierced the car's doors, fenders and smashed the glass. A concussive force shoved at his back and he was knocked violently forward, laid flat on the ground, gasping for air. He saw the car explode into flames. Instinctively he covered his head with his arms. Debris large and small, earth and rocks rained down all around and onto him. Something large thudded and shook the ground close by. He lay prone, eyes closed tight against the grit and ash whirling around in the rushing maelstrom. A heavy shower of smaller debris pattered over him.

When at last he opened his eyes, and turned his head to the right, through the settling dust and ash he saw boots running towards him. He pulled his arms below his shoulders to push himself up, but couldn't move his legs. The boots stopped beside him and a figure crouched down and began throwing and sweeping debris off his back. He could see the man was speaking, but couldn't hear him - in fact, he couldn't hear anything at all - except what seemed a high-pitched radio frequency droning in his head. He felt something wet running down his jawline and watched blood dripping onto his hand. He could feel tremendous heat at his back, and saw the man's face had a strange orange glow.

Then, gradually, normal sounds returned - his own fast, ragged breathing, the crackling and drumming of a large inferno nearby, and finally the man's voice, though distorted as if under water.

"...Lie still, sir! Don't move. We'll have you sorted out in a trice. Here's help arriving."

Then the man shouted, urgently,

"Oi, Stan! Lend an 'and. Let's get this wall off the gentleman's legs."

Another muted, distant voice,

"What in god's name, Bill? Was it the gas main?"

"Bigger than that, Stan. I reckon it was an old UXB buried deep in the building lot next door. Maybe a five-hundred pounder, like what dropped on the old house in '41. Now, take that end. This prefab concrete's heavy, sturdy stuff. May've saved his life, I reckon."

With a great heave, they lifted the broken section of wall up and off, and Foyle was glad to feel the sharp wrenching pain as his left knee and ankle shifted into their proper positions. He moved to try to get a leg under himself, but the two men cautioned him to wait, and carefully raised him upright by the arms.

"There you are, sir. How is it? All in one piece?"

He gritted his teeth as his weight settled onto his legs, but found nothing seemed to be broken. He nodded in response. With a hand on one of the men's shoulders, he turned, limping, to stare appalled at the damage done by the explosion.

The house was flattened, as well as the one behind it and the house next door, a fire raging in the midst of the wreckage, and a huge crater gaped where the concrete mixer had stood. A large piece of the heavy 'jumping jack' had landed inches from where he'd fallen.

Foyle coughed harshly, took in some air, and found his voice,

"_Man inside - by the front door!_"

The two rescuers exchanged a dire look, but went to search. Foyle hobbled to a bent over lamp standard and leant on it, while blood flowed from a wound on the back of his head, down his neck into his collar. He watched anxiously as they pulled slabs and fragments of building rubble away from the end of the footpath where the entrance had been.

He could tell by their posture when they found the body. Foyle bowed his head in dismay.

The two men moved on to the next house, then there were the sounds of sirens approaching, sobbing women and crying children, and other would-be rescuers gathered in the street, speculating on the event. Firefighters dragged their hoses across the road and trained them onto the blaze and the burning car.

He gave a statement to the police, naming the victim inside the house, and gesturing towards the broken remains of the equipment he had seen in the lot next door. Someone brought him a kitchen chair, someone handed him his ash-covered hat, and someone else pressed a mug of hot sweet tea into his hands, remarking that 'it was high time Jerry left off.'

The policemen inquired if he knew of family to be notified, and he asked to be allowed to deal with that, promising to arrange for the formal identification of the body. When they moved away, he was next surrounded by ambulance attendants, who tested his limbs and examined his cuts and abrasions, and he complied when they insisted he be taken to hospital. Just before he was helped into the back of the van, he saw the stretcher bearers remove the young man's body from the wreckage of the house.

* * *

**Historical note:**

_Excerpt from The Daily Mail, 9 September 2010_

**The men who ran towards the bombs: The Blitz heroes who saved countless lives defusing UXBs **

**By JAMES OWEN**

_...But while the threat of imminent invasion had passed, there was little respite for the men of Bomb Disposal. Many UXBs remained to be defused. If not, they might explode without warning, as happened in Gurney Street, South London, one sunny afternoon in June 1942._

_A bomb that had lain hidden for more than a year suddenly went off, bringing down a block of flats and five other houses._

_Rescuers made heartrending discoveries: the bodies of six small children who had been playing in the street, the corpse of a 17-year-old girl who had been sitting on her doorstep. Twelve people died on Gurney Street. Sixty others were injured and 200 left homeless._

_When peace was declared in May 1945, the men of Bomb Disposal had defused about 40,000 high explosive bombs, together with some 5,700 butterfly bombs and another 6,900 anti-aircraft shells and incendiaries._

_But their work was far from over. Between 1950 and 1958, another 140 UXBs were disposed of and 150 others discovered. The clear-up continues even today, with bombs regularly found on building sites._

_For more than 2,000 days, Britain had been under aerial siege. 147,000 British civilians were killed or injured by bombing, the majority during the Blitz and V-weapon attacks. Had it not been for the resourcefulness and immense bravery of the Bomb Disposal teams this figure would have been much higher._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Andrew was beginning to worry. He hadn't been able to reach his father at all, either at his work or at the _Naval Club_, by the late afternoon. That earlier remark - that he expected to see Wainwright again at the end of the day - now took on an ominous quality, though from the few times he had met the man, Andrew couldn't imagine him as any sort of threat. Just before leaving his own work and setting out to find his father, his telephone rang.

It was the Matron at King's College Hospital, Camberwell.

He reached his father's ward without encountering any informed medical staff, and found him seated on the edge of a bed, leaning forward on his elbows, hands clasped together. His suit was torn and dusty, his open shirt-collar blood-soaked, and the back of his head bandaged. On coming around the side of the bed, Andrew noted further cuts and bruises, a splint supporting his wrist, and his left ankle encased in a bandage.

"Dad?"

Foyle straightened and looked up with an almost stricken expression.

"My god, Dad, what's happened? A car accident?" He dragged forward a chair and sat facing him.

"No, n-not a car accident. A bomb, Andrew. A bloody German unexploded bomb - nearly under Sam's house."

He tried to run his fingers across his forehead, but they shook too severely. He cursed under his breath and dropped his hand onto the bed, pushing down onto the mattress to still it.

Andrew recognized the tremor as a resurfacing of battle stress - he'd seen it in enough of his fellow airmen and other veterans - but had never before seen his Dad affected by it.

"He's dead. Wainwright's dead."

Andrew tried to process this information,

"You - were at Sam's house, with Adam? And a bomb went off?"

"Yes. No - I was outside. I s-sent him into the house._ I sent him in_ - and he was killed." His father's voice was low, suppressing a kind of anguish.

"Dad, you couldn't have known there was a bomb under it. No one knew."

"We argued. -If I'd _hit_ him, knocked him down in the street, he'd still be alive."

Foyle couldn't look into his son's face, shaking his head slowly as he said,

"...He's dead. Didn't deserve that."

"No, of course not. But how could you have known?"

He'd supported a number of his friends through a bad bout of post-combat trauma, the nightmares, shakes and remembered sheer horror, but he was finding it difficult to step into that role for his always-in-control father.

"Dad, what do you need? How can I help?"

His father only shook his head again, distraught.

A voice with a kind, Welsh lilt answered him, as a tall, white-coated figure stepped forward,

"A stiff drink wouldn't go amiss. But if you could persuade him to accept a sedative, he'd be through the worst of it in a few days. He's badly banged up - We did five stitches under that gauze on the back of his head. Wrenched ankle, very sore knee, I'll wager; bruised soft tissue and ribs. Sprained left wrist. And blasted lungs - we'll need to watch that, don't want pneumonia taking hold."

The doctor stood before them both, gazing down at Foyle with a practical compassion.

"...Not to mention the trauma to the soul." He rested a hand on the back of Andrew's chair.

"Haven't had a case like this since the air raids stopped. Let's hope you're our last victim of the Blitz."

Foyle looked up, guilt-ridden,

"There w-were two of us."

The doctor nodded, and said to him seriously,

"One lived, the other died. That's the War - there's no logic, no judgement, no fairness. Your places could easily have been reversed. The question is, Mr. Foyle, what will you do with the rest of the life - _you_ - have?"

* * *

It had been nearly an hour later when Andrew Foyle, relieved and hopeful, watched his father sleeping soundly in the hospital bed at King's College, having at last agreed to the Doctor's recommended sedative. Sitting in the darkened ward alone at the bedside, he gave in to a filial impulse and reached out to touch his father's face, to smooth the lines from his brow and temple, something he had not done since he was small enough to be carried about on his arm, or draped sleepily over his shoulder.

He remembered how often that younger father's expression had been bright, amused, smiling, playful - a disposition that had influenced his own nature - and he mourned the loss of that contented man, gone as suddenly and as irrevocably as his beautiful, gentle mother. The lines now etched on his face - and Andrew regretted being the cause of some of them - spoke of his long resignation to solitude. As he contemplated this man whom he loved dearly despite their occasional conflicts, he wondered how his father might have aged differently, had he passed the years happily alongside his beloved wife. And he wondered if some of those lines might yet be erased by the soft caress of a new loving hand. He bent over the sleeping figure and kissed his forehead before rising to leave.

Then he had had to perform the very difficult task of breaking the news to Sam of the death of her estranged husband. Informed of this mission, the doctor had given him sedative pills to take to the new widow.

He had stayed in the flat that night, slept on the sofa. He _couldn't_ have left her alone. She'd been dreadfully conflicted at the news, summoning up real grief for Adam, not daring to fully express her greater concern for his father's injuries, nor able to easily contend with the realization that she'd lived many months over top of a buried, undiscovered UXB. In the end Sam, too, had accepted the sedatives, and fell asleep from the combined effects of medication and emotional exhaustion.

The next morning, he had visited the office at Curzon Street, where Andrew had convinced Arthur Valentine that his father had been pursuing an inquiry related to a case for the Security Service, and, resorting to a bit of ham acting, and some moral pressure related to how they had first recruited his father, had got the man to agree, at the Service's expense, to arrange a private train carriage, hire a nurse, and to grant a medical leave of absence, fully paid, for an indefinite term. He had also left a note at the Reception desk advising them of Mrs. Wainwright's bereavement.

Later he and Sam had completed the dreadful necessary formalities with the police and Coroner's Office. Then they had visited Adam's parents, he as a family friend accompanying the grieving widow, leaving out, of course, any mention of the recent betrayal and brief estrangement. Sam had accepted their heartfelt offer to stay with them for a period of mourning. She confessed to Andrew, as he helped her move her few possessions, that although she hardly knew them, she felt she owed them some sense of closure over the life of their only son.

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

A gentle sunlight dappled and swayed in the interior of the private train carriage taking Foyle back to Hastings. His eyelids were heavy, his mind calm under the effects of the sedative, as he gazed out at the passing scenery. All the pressing concerns of his work, the trauma he'd experienced, the tragic death he'd witnessed, and his worries over a particular friendship, seemed suspended, held at bay in this somewhat pleasant, befogged state. Andrew's presence allowed him to relax completely, and give way to the exhaustion that overpowered him.

Eventually he was home.

Andrew and his father were greeted by Alice Howard, Andrew's aunt, who had come to prepare the house for the arrival of the invalid. She had arranged to fill the larder, start the milk delivery and restart the newspapers, and had a cleaning woman go through each room and do up the bedrooms. They were grateful for both her efficiency and her discretion, as she saw them settled and then made her excuses, leaving them with a supper simmering on the back of the stove.

Later that first evening they took their accustomed chairs on either side of the hearth, his father's leg stretched out and elevated on an ottoman. Over the years since his mother's death, Andrew had seen his father subside into a deeply thoughtful, occasionally brooding, maddeningly reticent man. So it was an intriguing change to be in his company now, under the influence of the sedative, and find him seemingly unguarded and almost voluble, although his speech was slowed to just short of slurring.

After bringing up the present calamity in their young friend's life, Andrew ventured to turn the conversation to a subject never before broached between them.

"What were my _first_ impressions of Sam? Much like yours..., I'd imagine. Lovely girl... Breathtaking, really. Keen..., smart. Willing. Never... seen anyone quite like her."

"Did you ever... consider, you know...?"

"No... Stepping out...? No, certainly not. She was _your_ age... Andrew. Aside from the... _very_ prohibitive fact... that I was her boss, I didn't... fancy looking the fool. I'd seen other men... in positions of authority... rob the cradle..."

"Did you ever think _she_ might... be interested?"

"I... never entertained the thought, son."

"But then, by the end of the War, she was older, she'd matured - into an adult woman."

"Well, it's... funny... how that works, Andrew. I was... older, too."

Andrew smiled, then pressed on,

"Yet... thirty and fifty-four don't seem _quite_ as far apart as twenty-four and forty-eight, do they."

"_Hm_." He gave a very small humph of amusement, "But they are, you know."

That was as far as he dared go. He'd have another try the next day.

* * *

It was the early afternoon of a bright, temperate day, and Andrew had carried a pair of chairs into the back garden, brought a few cushions, then helped his Dad down the steps. He'd persuaded him to continue the sedatives, reasoning that the physical pain was greater today, and the trauma fresher, than it would be tomorrow. He fetched two glasses of cold ginger beer, alcohol being an unwise choice at the moment. His father sat back, closed his eyes, and lifted his face to the warmth of the sun.

Andrew did the same, and after a few minutes of companionable silence, asked,

"Did you enjoy traveling in America, Dad?"

"Oh, I wasn't... in the proper frame of mind to 'enjoy' it, Andrew. It... certainly wasn't a pleasure trip. I told you why I went."

"Yes. Senator Howard Paige. You got him to make the application to the patent office. They amended the registration on the synchromesh gear system to include Richard Hunter as the co-inventor. And Paige's company paid out a huge sum to his widow and son."

"That's right."

"Then you went after the murder charge."

"Yess."

"Was that necessary?"

"My opinion - absolutely. ...But we really... don't _have_ to discuss that now, do we?"

Foyle brought a fist up to his mouth and gave in to a brief coughing fit. He winced at the jarring strain, rested the hand on his upper chest, and massaged the muscles there. He took a drink from his glass, and settled his head again.

"Oh, no, of course not. Sorry."

He let silence fill a suitable expanse of time.

"I wonder what Sam will do now."

"She has a job to come back to, when she's ready."

"Working with you again? I would think she must be very glad of that. A sense of continuity, security."

"Well I'd be happy to have her. She has remarkable insight, at times."

Then after a pause, Andrew queried,

"Oh, but... you said you wanted to retire. Have you... changed your mind?"

"_Er_... Perhaps." He adjusted the cushion behind his head, "I'm not thinking very far ahead, just now."

"_Hm_. You've been remarkably compatible, you and Sam, I take it..."

"We... work well together." He sipped his drink again.

"Have you _ever_ had a falling out?"

"Well, yes. Once. Over you. I _was_ cross with her for not telling me where you were. But I suppose that was _your_ influence."

"Yes, it certainly was. She _hated_ being disloyal to you, Dad, but... I begged her. I was that frightened of flying another mission. Thought my number was up. The _two_ of you... saved my life, _I_ think."

Foyle half opened his eyes and turned his head slowly towards his son,

"Do you? I hadn't thought of it that way."

Andrew met his father's eyes, and said gently,

"_I_ believe Sam... did exactly what Mum would have done. Just gave me a bit of time, and room, to sort myself out. I'll always love her for that."

Andrew was quiet then, and let his father mull over that sentiment.

* * *

The next morning saw the arrival of the 'nurse' - in fact a demobbed Army Medic - hired through the unwitting generosity of the Security Service, and Andrew left his father in the man's care, to go back to his work in London.

Foyle was soon on easy terms with his attendant - the very competent Medic named Frank. He and Frank, together, monitored his daily progress, and found his ankle was recovering, his knee benefited from the support of a cane, his temperature was stable and his cough improved each day. By the second week he no longer wanted the sedative. Cuts and abrasions healed and faded, and his local doctor removed the stitches on the back of his head. During his convalescence, Andrew traveled down from London to visit each weekend. After a month and a fortnight Foyle could get about without the cane, and Frank felt confident in wishing him well. Outwardly he was himself again.

Inwardly, it was a different matter.

tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Over the weeks of his recovery, in quiet moments alone, while Frank was busy writing his notes or was out of the house, Foyle's thoughts had continually turned to Sam. Resting in his chair by the hearth with a neglected novel on his lap, or, when the discomfort of his injuries had tired him, lying on his bed, it was Samantha, and the choices he'd made over the last year, that he brooded over.

His decision to go to America had been taken, not only for the cause pulling him there, but also for the post-war events pushing him away from Hastings. While he was glad to be free of the frustrations of his career, he had no doubt that he might be drafted back into the work at any time - and he really didn't want that. As well, with the end of his formal authority over Sam, though he hoped their friendship would continue, he felt he had to allow her space to find herself in civilian life - and how better than to leave the country?

He had not been straight with Andrew on that point - he _had_ 'entertained the thought' that she seemed more than a little devoted to him. And he was more than fond of her. At the end of the War he had considered, in his most optimistic introspections, that he might, after a proper period of separation and transition, approach Sam in a different role, as a potential suitor, in the unlikely event that she were still unattached.

But fate conspired against him, first in the form of the accidental killing of her employer, Sir Leonard Spencer-Jones, and the connected case of the Russian House, which brought them together again too soon. And finally in the form of Adam Wainwright, an apparently perfectly eligible, pleasant young man. He could not object to her choice, and Sam seemed content to make the best of things with him.

Foyle could only withdraw from the field and wish her well.

Then, in the few days before his departure, the events surrounding James Devereaux had taken all his attention, bringing with them the resurfacing of a deeply troubling period from his youth. In fact, those old events, reconsidered, served to convince him that passion _was_ best left to the young, who had the strength to weather its storms and heartbreak. And in truth he was long used to denying himself a more complete life, since Rosalind's death; it was far easier, steadier, to continue that habit of solitude, than to reach out and take a chance on a new experience.

And yet, he now had to recognise what Sam, through no fault of her own and completely unpredictably, had endured in the past several months - the hurt of a neglectful spouse, a shocking betrayal, and a senseless tragic death. He might have spared her all of that, had he, a year ago, admitted to himself the strength of his feelings, investigated hers, and acted on that knowledge.

While they were driving up to London to find the Russian House, Sam had all but asked him to take her to America with him. But he had never examined that request, or what might have motivated her to ask, so convinced was he that she needed time apart from him to discover herself, freed from the constrictions of wartime duty. To his shame, he had never thought of her feelings when he simply didn't respond.

And at the same time, he had known without a doubt, and should have considered for Sam's sake, that his own youthful period of richest growth, and becoming his true self, had been, not his bachelor days, but the years of his close, loving partnership within his very happy marriage.

* * *

Andrew Foyle had never much cared for angling, finding it an unexciting, solitary, and too subtle pursuit for his own gregarious nature. He had _tried_, in his younger years, in moments when he wasn't entirely self-absorbed, to appreciate the science and art of the hobby his father loved.

One of his favourite childhood memories was of his Dad in waders and sportsman's waistcoat, paying out line, reeling in and casting out in that rather elegant undulating gesture, just touching the fly to the surface of the water to attract, and lure in, the curious or hungry creatures below. As much as he had tried, this was one of their shared activities that his father had never succeeded in establishing or sustaining his interest in. But Andrew had learned enough to understand the technique, even if he had never seriously practiced it.

Well, now he was going to give it a try in earnest, at least figuratively.

* * *

It was his son's second weekend visit during the time of his recovery from the bomb incident, and Foyle was growing concerned over his failure to mention a word about how Sam was coping - in fact he'd hardly mentioned her at all since arranging the rather luxurious style of his return to Hastings.

"Andrew, you're not still bunking with your friend, are you?"

"No, I'm back at my flat."

"Then... Sam's not there?"

"No."

"Where is she staying, Andrew?"

"She's found a place in Knightsbridge. You know how resourceful Sam is."

"Has she... returned to work?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then how is she -? Are you... helping her out?"

"_Er_... she may have been assisted by that Glenvil Harris chap, through the Labour Party. I don't really know."

"But she's all right? You've looked in on her?"

"Yes. When I can."

At that point, Andrew had changed the subject. Foyle had let it go, but he was far from satisfied with the scant information his son had given. And, _Knightsbridge_? She must be sharing a flat with _several_ other girls.

* * *

On his next visit, Andrew was even less forthcoming. Amidst their weekend's worth of conversation, this was all he'd offered by way of news,

"No, I haven't seen her. Knightsbridge didn't work out. I think she said she was to be somewhere in Earl's Court."

"When did she tell you that?"

"_Erm_... Not sure. Sometime last week. Over the 'phone. She did sound a little... lost... Not sure how to describe it."

Foyle frowned at that remark,

"Well, do keep an eye on her, Andrew. She's not back at the office?"

"I don't recall that she mentioned it, Dad, one way or the other. Why is that important?"

"Oh, w-. Work. A routine..., best antidote to grief...and, _er._.. disappointment."

"Would you like me to ask her?"

"No. No. Just,_ em_... wondered."

The following weekend, as they sat having tea at the kitchen table, Andrew had this puzzling news,

"Oh, by the way, I saw Sam in Bloomsbury. She's not yet returned to work, I did ask."

Foyle feigned a mild interest,

"I suppose she must have received some sort of... widow's pension... through the Labour Party."

"Well, I don't know, Dad. She said something about having to return home to her parents in Lyminster."

"Oh." He scratched his temple in frustration.

"She asked how you were."

Foyle looked up, on the alert.

"Of course, I hadn't given her too many details of your injuries."

"No. Why would you. What did you say to her?"

"I said you were fine."

"R-right..."

Andrew noted he seemed quite dissatisfied with that remark.

"How was she? Did she seem, _er._.. recovered from...?"

"She was fine, Dad." He answered blithely, drinking his tea.

Foyle chewed the inside of his lip, irritated,

"'_Fine?_' - that's very descriptive, Andrew, coming from a _published poet_. Can you not, _er_..."

Andrew assumed an air of nonchalance, sitting back in his chair,

"You could always go visit her, in London, if you're worried about her."

"Well, she seems rather difficult to 'home in on,' from what you've been telling me."

"Invite her down here, then. She can have my room, ...again."

His father's eyes snapped fully open at that remark.

"Dad, I'll be happy to give her the message..."

"Well..., _erm_..."

"She _has_ been bombed out of her house - for the _second_ time in her life."

"I'm well aware of that, Andrew."

"...Still _thousands_ of people waiting for new housing... Could be a long while before she's got _anything_, I suppose."

"Very true... _Em_..."

Eyebrows raised expectantly, Andrew watched his Dad patiently, unhurried, waiting...

"...Y-yes,_ do_."

_'Got you, you beauty!'_

He rested an elbow on the table and hid a satisfied sportsman's smile behind his cup of tea.

"_Erm_... Let me know when you've spoken with her, Andrew."

"Sure, Dad."

Now it was up to Sam to reel him in.

tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Of course, Andrew and Sam had put their heads together over this arranged invitation. He _had_ been helping her out, because the truth was, she was broke. There had been no life insurance or home insurance - the bomb was considered an 'act of war', and any government compensation would be months in red tape - no widow's pension from the Labour Party, or Parliament. Nothing from the Security Service, except to hold her job for her. She really had almost resigned herself to accepting her parents' invitation - well, insistence - that she come home to them in Lyminster. However, not wishing to lose contact with her at this crucial juncture, Andrew had arranged, after she left the Wainwrights', for her to stay in a flat belonging to a friend who was out of town, and they had dined together nearly every evening. They had had many long, personal talks about her marriage, and her working relationship with his father; he had shared his memories and some insights into his parents' marriage, limited by the fact that he had been a young boy when it had ended so tragically.

Sharing a late tea together in front of the hearth at her temporary flat, Sam asked hesitantly,

"But, Andrew, _if_ things were to... work out... would you really be comfortable having a stepmother your own age? Can you imagine calling me 'Mother'?"

He grinned,

"Only when I wanted you to buy me sweets. Look, Sam, I'm convinced Dad loves you, but for all the reasons we've discussed, he needs a push to admit it - and to do something about it. You tell me you love him..."

She closed her eyes and sighed, still doubtful her hopes could be realised.

"I do love him, Andrew. He's... the finest man I've ever known, the kindest, and... _so appealing_..."

Andrew raised his head, surprised at the low, smoky tone of that last remark.

But she finished in a completely unromantic, practical voice,

"And I want to be _in love... with him_."

He smiled fondly at her, and spread his hands wide,

"I don't see any reason why the two of you shouldn't try to make a go of it. So, if you use all your feminine wiles to..."

"To trap him? That sounds terribly... you know."

"No, just... _be_ with him, talk with him. _Show_ him how you feel."

"What if he thinks I'm... on the rebound...? Falling back on an old friendship because of what's happened?"

"Just... tell him he's wrong! Have you ever kissed him?"

Sam blushed, not meeting his eyes, and murmured,

"Andrew!"

"Have you?"

"No! Not properly," she lied, still uncomfortable over that incident.

"Once. On the cheek. By mistake."

He was amused and puzzled,

"How can you kiss someone... 'by mistake'?"

She shrugged, shaking her head,

"He'd been... kind enough to drive me home. It was a... 'good-bye,' 'thank-you' sort of... peck... at the door. I did it without thinking. He used to drive me home most days."

"Did he? To Peckham? You know he had a room at the _Naval Club_, a few streets from the office."

Sam stared at him, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

He couldn't help thinking he had to get these two fish into the same stream.

"Well, then," he suggested, "perhaps a... 'hello, I love you' kiss - a _proper kiss_, mind you - would be a good start."

Sam blushed more deeply,

"Aren't you finding this a very odd sort of conversation, Andrew?"

He shook his head vigorously,

"Look - the pair of you got through the_ entire War_ together with barely a scratch. You go your separate ways, and all hell breaks loose! _I'm_ just trying to preserve my last parent and my very good friend." He took hold of her hand in both of his,

"I'm giving you my blessing, if it's needed."

Andrew leaned across and kissed her on the cheek, and said with a small smile,

"D'you remember... what you said to me, when I was off to Debden? You said, 'we'll take care of each other.' I'm holding you to that promise, Sam."

She smiled and blinked back a tear,

"Do you know what _he_ said to me, after you'd flown past? He said, 'The Foyles... always have been hard to resist.'"

The next day, in the unusually warm sunshine of a late September morning, Andrew had put her on the train, and he'd given his father only a day's warning, to be sure he couldn't change his mind.

tbc...


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Sam stood on the emptying platform of the Hastings train station, her one suitcase containing all her possessions beside her, scanning the dispersing crowds and the distant entranceway. There was no sign of him, but she kept the little pessimistic voice in her head at bay. Eventually she picked up her bag and started walking to the Waiting Room door, then she heard his voice call her name from the far end of the station.

With a glad smile she turned, and there he was, a determined look on his face, limping towards her as quickly as he could manage, leaning on the cane in his left hand with each step. It was a bit of a shock. Andrew had said he was quite recovered from his injuries - had he held back the truth, to spare her worrying?

She hurried along the platform to him, the suitcase dragging her arm down,

"Mr. Foyle - I didn't realize...! I'd have got a taxi. You shouldn't have-."

"No, no, Sam - my fault, _er_, happened just this morning - turned the wrong way, twisted the knee again."

They stood facing each other expectantly, a few feet apart, eyes bright with mingled care and joy.

He was so pleased to see her looking rested and well - and her hair returned to that softer and very becoming style she'd worn a year ago.

She could see a gleam of sweat on his brow from rushing to her, as well as the fading scars and scrapes from the bomb incident. Sam set down her case, compressed her lips in concern, then moved forward to close the distance between them.

"It's _very_ kind of you to..." She couldn't finish, overcome with emotion.

"Nnot at all, a... pleasure..." His voice faded as they found themselves looking steadily into each other's eyes.

Sam attempted to rally,

"Are you...? I was so sorry to hear you'd been injured."

"Better, now, Sam. And you - are _you_...?" His brows contracted in sympathy, and something more.

Sam gave him a tremulous smile, lifted her arms towards him and Foyle stepped into her embrace, his free hand encircling her back. They held each other carefully, as if the other were fragile. After a deep breath and exhalation, she said tearfully,

"Well, we've been through the wars, haven't we?"

She could feel him silently chuckle. He spoke gently and low by her ear,

"P'rhaps it's time... we found some peace, for a little while."

"A little while? And after that?"

"I've... _nno doubt_ something will come along, Samantha."

He drew back and smiled into her eyes. She brought a hand up to caress his cheek. With a slow blink and a slight lift of an eyebrow to ask permission, which she gave with a smile, he kissed her softly.

A little light-headed, she kissed him back rather more deeply, longingly, and as he responded in kind, they felt themselves swaying off-balance. Foyle replanted the cane to steady himself, holding her tight.

His nose pressed into her hair, he murmured,

"Dear girl."

He took in a slow deep breath, then half-opened his eyes, looking over her shoulder to find they were being observed at a distance by an amused, and apparently approving, porter.

Foyle stepped back, head bowed,

"There's a cab waiting. Let's _er._.." He tilted his head towards the exit.

"Yes."

They smiled shyly at each other, adjusting to this new way of being together.

Sam turned to pick up her case, but the porter swooped in without a word and carried it up the platform towards the cab. As they started off, Foyle took hold of her left hand, while negotiating his walking stick on the other side.

Halfway down the platform he turned to her, saying conversationally,

"I need to buy a car..."

"Do you? I could help you with that. I know a bit about cars."

"Care to have a look, then, Sam, after lunch?"

"I'd love to, ...Christopher."

He raised his eyebrows, then bit his lower lip, giving her a small pleased smile.

After a pause, she added,

"You might need a driver - til that leg's better."

"Definitely need a driver." He nodded once and looked hopefully and seriously into her eyes.

"Good." Sam nodded back and smiled at him.

* * *

After the cabbie had deposited Sam's case just inside the door of Foyle's house, he drove them to _Le Coquillage_, a recently opened restaurant overlooking the seafront, where Foyle had made a reservation. Seated at a window table with a panoramic vista, Samantha and Christopher only had eyes for each other.

The _maître d'_ soon felt he could have sat them next to a brick wall, for all the notice they took of the charming beachside view. His restaurant was not busy - only one-third of the tables occupied just now - and he wanted to ensure each party was satisfied with their placement. He was having_ un peu de difficulté_ figuring out the couple. Clearly they were _follement amoureux_ - the telltale signs: animated expressions, energized conversation, constant eye contact. Yet, the lady was young, very attractive, and the gentleman, while _sans doute_ handsome enough to the female sex, was _certainement_ past middle age; he might, _en effet_, be of an age with the lady's own father, of an age with himself. And the limp? A war wound? Unlikely to be from active military service: _quel dommage_, so many civilians had been injured during the bombings.

The gentleman did not have anything about his person that suggested exceptional wealth, which would be the usual attraction in such a case, nor did he seem particularly suave or mesmerizing - he was no Svengali holding _la jeune femme_ in his thrall. And the lady appeared perfectly respectable, speaking with a rather - what was the word? - oh, yes, 'plummy' accent. He noted the shadow of a ring on the third finger of her left hand - had she removed her wedding band? _Non, non_, he would be charitable - a war widow, perhaps, looking to start afresh.

They evidently knew each other well, judging by their references to mutual acquaintances and shared past events, which he overheard as he circulated amongst the tables, overseeing the requirements of his few guests. And yet, there was something... _enthousiasm__é_ - heightened - about their conversation, as if they had never spoken to each other in this way before. As if everything was quite new between them. And it was _the lady_ who, more often, reached for the gentleman's hand.

_D'accord_, there really was nothing about the couple to raise an alarm or a _frisson_ of discomfort, nothing that would reflect badly on this establishment. Yet...? An unusual pair, to be sure. _Peut-être_ a 'May-December' romance?

_Eh bien_, who was he, Charles LaChance, to question true love! _Mais_, best to leave them to themselves, in case _la circonspection_ was the order of the day. If they patronized _Le Coquillage_ again, he would seat them at a more private table.

* * *

Oblivious of the examination to which they had just been subjected, Christopher and Samantha enjoyed their glass of _vin blanc_, their _poulet Provençal_, and, as they finished, both agreed it would be a fine place to return to, in the future. He tipped the waiter generously, shook hands with _Monsieur_ LaChance and complimented him on the fine meal, wishing him success with his venture, and inquiring when they had opened. Before they parted, Foyle remarked,

"Your accent, not Parisian, _er_... Brittany? Nantes?"

LaChance was surprised, and examined his guest a little closer,

"On the coast, Piriac-sur-mer. You know the region?"

"...A friend, many years ago, similar accent. Visited once or twice. Beautiful country. My... late wife painted, watercolours."

The Frenchman smiled,

"Halcyon days. We must discuss your travels in my home land some time, Mr. ...Foyle?"

"Christopher Foyle. My friend, Samantha..."

Sam extended her hand,

"Samantha St-...Wainwright, how do you do?"

He bent and kissed her fingers. The man did not bat an eyelid at her hesitation over her own name.

A _briefly_ married war widow, he surmised,

"Charles LaChance, _à votre service_. I do hope you will both come again."

"We shall." Foyle smiled and nodded their farewell.

tbc...


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

On the pavement, as he donned his hat, Sam remarked,

"I visited _Paris_ once, on a school trip. Saw the _Louvre_, the _Eiffel_ Tower, _Champs Élysées_. Hard to imagine what's gone on there, during the War."

"Paris will recover. Perhaps we'll see it again, some day."

She smiled at him, eyes sparkling with pleasure at the thought.

However, he was glad she hadn't mentioned the 'school trip' in front of the_ restaurateur_.

His own last school trip - to a local tool and die shop, as he recalled - had been just a few years after Queen Victoria's son had finally taken the throne.

Strolling towards the public library - well, she strolled, he limped - Foyle reflected that he'd been pleased to see Sam's appetite had returned. He thought she was looking remarkably well, given the horrendous events she had been subjected to less than two months ago. The word 'blooming' came to mind - and then gave him pause.

_Was there a possibility -?_

_That_ was a complication they would need to investigate thoroughly before - well, before they could feel quite easy about their future. No use speculating or worrying, they would need a medical opinion; but how to broach such a delicate question with Sam? He'd ponder over it, but best leave that discussion until they were home.

* * *

In the library they collected the latest copies of the local newspapers and sat in a secluded corner, heads together, looking through the notices under the column, 'Automobiles For Sale, Used.' As most post-war domestic car production was just getting underway, this would be a better bet.

"Oh, look, Christopher, here's a '37 _Wolseley_! We know how reliable that model is, and there'd be nothing unfamiliar under the bonnet. Larger than the _Austin_, too."

"True, though I wouldn't mind the smaller car. Better rate of fuel consumption. And the yearly engine tax would be less."

"Well, I read recently that the tax system for cars is changing - it will be based on cubic capacity rather than on horsepower."

"I see."

"In terms of fuel consumption, you should perhaps look at the _new_ model _Austin Seven_ - and I've heard it's got the overhead valve system, which is quite an improvement on the side-valve, you know."

Foyle raised an eyebrow, amused yet impressed,

"What's the advantage?"

"Greater power output. The new model will have the 16 hp engine, ...however, delivery could be delayed. Production started in '45, but they're not rolling out quickly enough to meet the demand..."

She bent her head over another column,

"Here's a '39 _Seven_ for a good price. Not a lucky year, though..."

"...'Lucky year,' Sam?" He asked, perplexed.

"Well, the start of the War. I should think the workers were feeling rather on edge. More mistakes."

"What year would be 'lucky,' then, d'you think?" Foyle suppressed a smile.

"You can't go wrong with a '37 or '38, quite reliable, and then the new '46 models. You wouldn't want to buy anything more than ten years old, s-, Christopher."

She looked up at him apologetically,

"Sorry. I will stop calling you 'sir,' it's just habit." She moved in close and nudged his ear with her nose, whispering,

"Until then, you may feel yourself venerated, because it rather sounds as though I'm calling you _Ssaint_ Christopher."

"Well, I'm certainly no saint." He turned his head to steal a kiss, just at the moment when a library assistant rounded the corner with a trolley of books. Foyle straightened up, mildly embarrassed, and took up another newspaper. Sam cleared her throat,

"Shall I jot down the 'phone numbers from these adverts, then?"

"_Er_, yes, the '37 _Wolseley_, and any _Austin Sevens_ built in a 'lucky' year," he cocked an eye at her. "We could look into the new models as well... find out how long the delivery might be."

The young woman shelving the books turned towards them,

"Forgive me for intruding, I couldn't help overhearing, but are you wanting to buy a car?"

"Why, yes, we are. Do you know of any?" Sam replied with a hopeful air.

"Well, it's only that my aunt asked me just yesterday morning to tack a 'for sale' notice on our bulletin board. _She_ has a car she wants to sell. My cousin brought me the notice. I'll just go and fetch it."

The girl trotted away and Sam smiled,

"Well, this could be lucky, too."

Foyle scratched his temple,

"Nnot in the habit of relying on luck when making a large purchase..., but, wouldn't hurt to look into it."

* * *

As it turned out, the aunt, a Mrs. Dunlop, had just been widowed due to an unexpected heart attack, and her late husband had left her with the new 1946 model _Wolseley Eight_. She told them she didn't drive, and didn't want the bother of keeping the car in a hired garage for any longer than she had to. Although her son was just old enough to drive, she certainly didn't want him handling such a powerful motor.

They examined all the purchase, tax, and licensing documents, then went to view the car. Sam admired its pristine engine compartment, the bright royal blue paint, its leather and walnut interior; Foyle appreciated its array of informative dashboard gauges, four doors, spare tyre and comfortable seating. They took the car out on a trial spin.

"Gosh, what a beauty!" Sam remarked as she pulled the car out onto the main road.

"Handles like a dream. Much better visibility all round. Hydraulic drum brakes - very smooth."

As they reached the outskirts of the town, she added,

"Shifts easily - she has synchromesh gear in second, third and fourth."

"...We can thank the late Mr. Hunter for that." Foyle commented soberly.

"Yes."

They were well away from the built up area of Hastings, surrounded by open fields on a long straight stretch of road, when Sam said,

"You know, s- Christopher, the conversion to the overhead valve system has increased the horsepower on this model to 33. What do you suppose her top speed might be?"

"Well, I don't,_ er_..."

She scanned all around the mirrors, glanced over at him with a quirk of an eyebrow, and grasped the shifter,

"Let's find out, shall we?" And pressed her foot down on the accelerator. The car leapt forward, and kept on leaping as she depressed the clutch and shifted up through the gears. The scenery began to speed past in a blur.

"Sam." Foyle braced himself more securely in his seat, "This really isn't-."

"Forty-five and climbing." She smiled confidently.

"Sam, I'd rather you-."

"Fifty-five. She's still accelerating!"

"Sam!" His eyes widened in consternation, if not alarm.

"Sixty m.p.h.! Hurrah!" She cheered, then let up on the accelerator and shifted down through the gears again, slowing to the proper speed for the road,

"I'd _bet_ she would do a little more, but I didn't want to risk it. Wouldn't do for _us_ to get caught, would it?" And she grinned at him cheekily.

Foyle, restored to his usual placidity, rolled his eyes towards her, folded his arms, and remarked drily,

"I could make a citizen's arrest, you know."

Sam laughed.

* * *

Foyle had _some_ reservations, given that this luxurious model was rather in excess of his requirements, but he _could_ afford it, and it was clear that Sam was quite taken with it. He deeply enjoyed seeing her animated and happy again.

So, between them, they were entirely satisfied with the car. Nonetheless, before returning to Mrs. Dunlop's house, Foyle had Sam stop at the police station and run in to ask the desk sergeant to ensure there was no record of a stolen car report. It seemed too much of a lucky chance.

They were able to complete the sale and transfer of ownership that afternoon, after a minor disagreement - Foyle insisting on paying the full 'new' price, as he didn't wish to take advantage of the widow's bereavement, and the lady refusing to take so much, as she wanted to be rid of the car.

She said unhappily, and perhaps a touch scornfully - "'Lord Nuffield's favourite model' - and my Alan had to have it." Mrs. Dunlop believed the attendant stress and excitement of purchasing it had contributed to her husband's final illness. They settled on three hundred pounds, well below its original selling price of just a few weeks ago, and he made out the cheque.

Foyle had noted the odometer reading of only twenty-four miles, and watched it roll to twenty-five as they set off for home.

"This seems almost too good to be true, doesn't it, Christopher?"

"It does, Sam. The lady seemed genuine enough, and the papers were in order, but, _er_, you're quite sure Sergeant Waters had no stolen car reports?" He said with a quirk of his lips.

"None at all. He said he'd check with the other stations, as well."

Then after a pause,

"...Gosh, this has been fun! "

She turned to him with a grin,

"Imagine if we'd had this much horsepower to pursue criminals with! ...Would you care to go a little farther? A scenic drive? Put her through her paces?"

Foyle bit the inside of his cheek, amused at her continued enthusiasm, but was faced with his own current limitations,

"Think we've had quite enough demonstration of 'her paces,' today, thank-you very much. Truthfully, Sam? My... _er._..my leg's aching like blazes. Would you mind if we headed home?"

"Of course not! Sorry. Is it bad? Can I do anything?" She reached over and rested her hand on his right knee. His eyebrows shot up as he stared fixedly out the front windscreen,

"Well, nnot while driving. And... it's the _left_."

"I know that." She smirked and gave his leg a squeeze, then returned her hand to the steering wheel.

"Took your mind off it for a moment."

tbc...


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

At Steep Lane they got out, stood admiring the car awhile, and then the prospect of going into the privacy of his house together began to dawn upon them, heightening their awareness of each other.

On the stairs, as she walked up with him, Sam saw he was having more difficulty, using the handrail, leading with his right leg, then bringing the cane and the left foot up onto the step. She said sympathetically, a little apologetically,

"A _re-injury_ can be worse than the initial one. Perhaps we've rather... overdone it, today, Christopher."

"Well, only just. But worth it. A good result. ...I'll rest the knee tomorrow." He smiled gamely and handed her his keys.

Once inside the door, Sam moved her suitcase out of the way, helped him with his coat, divested herself of her own, then offered to make a pot of tea. She went through to put the kettle on, heard some quiet movement from the dining room as she set out the cups on a tray and filled the teapot with boiling water. Sam turned to see him standing in the doorway, watching her thoughtfully. He hadn't removed his suit jacket, hadn't even loosened his tie.

She went to him, eyes alight with affectionate concern, and kissed him on the cheek,

"You should be_ resting_. Shall I make a cold compress for your knee...?"

He took her hand,

"Let's... _er_, just have a little talk, shall we?" And tilted his head towards the sitting room.

Sam felt a tremor of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

"Oh. Yes. About..._us_?"

"_Hmm_."

"Shall I... bring the tea...?" She half-turned and took a step back.

But he shook his head slightly and drew her with him through the doorway.

Settling on the sofa near him, she willed herself into calm composure, smoothed her skirt, touched a hand to her loose and softly curling hair.

Foyle lay his cane on the floor beside him, turned to Samantha with a serious expression, and took a moment to study her face - the 'blooming' quality of her skin, the brightness of her eyes, though now shaded just a little by apprehension as she gazed attentively at him.

He smiled to reassure her, his right hand holding her left, massaging her fingers with his thumb, then he grew almost solemn, and began a deliberative, quiet and apparently well-thought-out monologue,

"Samantha, there are many arguments _against_ a pair like us... mmarrying, but I won't insult your intelligence by listing them. I'm sure you've already run through them all in your own mind. _I've_ come to the conclusion that those arguments no longer matter...to _me_."

He looked into her eyes,

"I _love_ you. Have... for a long time, Sam. And... I've a feeling _you_ might...care for me." He made a considering face as though he found this unlikely, flashed an affectionate smile, then continued,

"Before I... ask you to make me any promises, I want to mention ...couple of things. First, if your father and mother are _adamantly_ against your marrying me, and if we can't change their minds, then... I will accept that. I _don't_ want to estrange you from your family. ...I would hope that we could remain friends."

Foyle was relieved, and a little surprised, that Samantha hadn't interrupted him thus far, though he could see her eyes were brimming with emotion.

"Secondly, and it's an extremely sensitive and difficult thing to discuss, but... If it should... be the case that you are, now, ...pregnant, then, whether we marry or not, I _will_ see that you and the child are well taken care of. I believe Adam's parents have a right to know if they have a grandchild. And I _will_ understand if that changes the nature… the closeness... of your connection to _them_.

"For these reasons - as much as I would _dearly love_ to ask you a certain question this very minute, Samantha - ..._I_ feel that... we must have answers to _those_ two questions first. So, _em_...,"

He fished a small, deep-purple velvet-covered jeweler's box out of his jacket pocket, and placed it on the low table in front of them,

"I just want you to know that I'm... _anxiously_ awaiting that information."

Sam remained speechless, having watched his face earnestly as he spoke to her, having shut her eyes and let her tears overflow at the suggestion of a grandchild for the Wainwrights, and then had gasped and brought her hand up to her mouth when he'd produced the small box.

She felt everything he'd said was so reasonable, so correct, and so loving that she could not add any remark of her own. Taking in a deep breath, she nodded several times, and said quietly,

"I agree."

Foyle, again, was surprised. He'd been prepared for her to argue some of the points. Biting his lower lip, he found he wasn't sure, just at that moment, what their next step would be.

Sam moved to hold his hand in both of hers, head bowed, and answered,

"I don't think I'm pregnant, but we must be sure. I'll make an appointment in the morning with the doctor I used to see here. Even so, I suppose we must wait a _decent_ interval... before marr-..." Sam's brows furrowed, as she was overcome with a kind of remorse.

Foyle gathered her close under his right arm, settled her head against his shoulder,

"It's been a very difficult year for you, Sam, and... I'm sorry if I was the cause of any - or _all_ - of your sorrows."

"_You_ have _nothing_ to apologise for. I'd say, _c'est la guerre_, except - well, the War was over." She looked up into his face,

"It's just...Life, really, isn't it? You never know what it will bring."

"Well, that's very generous of you. I do _regret_... ssome of my decisions, a year ago. I want you to know that, Sam."

He pressed his lips to her forehead, then, seeming to relax a little after his apology and her acceptance, sat back with her cheek resting on his breast. He loosened his tie and shirt collar, and gingerly straightened his injured leg to ease the discomfort,

"And... I'm sorry I wasn't able to attend the funeral. How did you manage?"

"Oh. Well..." She traced a finger around a button on his waistcoat,

"Mother and father were there; the Wainwrights - they are fine, good people; I feel I know them better, now. And Andrew stuck by me - he was a brick, so helpful. Brookie and Paul - it was very kind of them to come. Glenvil Harris, Mr. Roper - the Cabinet Minister, others from the Party. There were people who said they'd worked with Adam during the War. Gloria and a few other girls from the research department. Oh- Mr. Valentine was there."

"Arthur?"

"Yes. And he wanted you to know that he'd concluded the Strasser case: he'd called in the Americans."

"Hardly the proper place to discuss it, but I'm pleased to hear it. ...Why did he tell _you_?"

"Assumed I'd be seeing you, I suppose. Well, actually, he said it to Andrew and me together, perhaps so that either of us could pass it on to you."

"_Hmm._"

"Father asked after you. He was very sorry to learn that you'd been hurt in the... explosion. He wondered... why you'd been there, actually."

Then she asked, puzzled,

"Why, exactly, _were_ you there, Christopher?"

"Well," he sighed unhappily, "Sam, it was simply to avoid a car chase through London. Adam was waiting outside the office. He wanted to know where you were. I wasn't about to tell him. He perhaps thought he'd follow me in a cab to _you_, but... I... drove to your house."

"_Oh, ...god_."

She sat up, distressed,

"If I'd _telephoned_ him, none of this-." She rubbed her fingertips on her temple.

"Sam, you mustn't...second-guess. We can't change what's happened."

"No. I know."

She turned to look at him for a long moment, her expression transitioning from pained remorse through sorrow to regretful acceptance. She reached for the comfort and reassurance of his hand.

"I should have waited for you. It was only a year..."

Foyle sat forward, caressed her cheek with his left hand and leant towards her for a kiss - chastely, at first, then, sensing her yielding response, more exploratively; his fingers moved softly to her throat and around to the nape of her neck. Sam put her arms around him under his suit jacket and leant back, drawing him with her until she half-reclined, invitingly, against the cushioned armrest of the sofa.

With his right hand braced on the backrest, he regrouped, deftly shifted position around her knees, so that she was lying almost straight and he was perched on the edge of the seat beside her. His kisses became more insistent, his lips parting and seeking to open hers as their breathing quickened. Sam welcomed his invasion, collaborated with the thrill of his domination, sighing her encouragement.

Then he stopped, retreated, withdrew his forces.

"...Sam, darling. Sorry. This won't do." Speaking in a constricted, husky voice.

Confused, with an effort she re-focussed her sensually befogged eyes. Then saw by the strain on his face that he was in physical pain.

"The _damned_ leg -. Could we, perhaps -?"

"Oh! Gosh. Sorry. Let me - just -."

She attempted to sit up, scooting back, folding her skirted legs and then awkwardly unfolding them on _her_ side of him, until she was again in a sitting position, feet on the floor.

"How shall we, _um_-? If I-." She bit her bottom lip.

"Come here, my darling…" He drew her towards him, manfully ignoring the sharp ache in his knee, intent on regaining his objective.

They attempted to resume in the reverse position, he reclining and she leaning over him, but the breadth and depth of his upper body made the connection difficult. He had to lift his head off the armrest. Sam wondered if she might lie beside him, but worried his leg would be bothered. She shifted further up the narrow, inadequate sofa, bending her body so she could reach him and he could rest his head as they kissed. She dared to run her fingers over his chest, and began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, seeking closer contact.

After only a few moments of renewed engagement, the campaign was halted abruptly when his hands convulsively gripped her upper arms and his whole frame stiffened. Foyle nearly threw her off, lifting her bodily as he rose up suddenly, with a shout of pain, his face stricken with distress.

"_Dammit...!_ Leg...spasm. Help me up, Sam, - better if I stand!"

He clutched at her arm and they struggled up onto their feet together. Foyle draped his right arm heavily across her shoulders and shifted his weight onto the spasming left leg to brace it,

"_Jeezuz! Wept_."

Sam was stunned and a little panicked at his obvious agony, pressing her hand to his breast,

"_Ssir! What can I do?!_"

He threw his head back, the fingers of his right hand digging into her shoulder, his left hand grasping his upper thigh. He grimaced at the ceiling, cursing, eyes watering, until the violent contraction subsided and the rock hard muscles unlocked. Open-mouthed, a bit shocked from the ordeal, his breathing was laboured for a few moments.

"_Christ._ That one... was excruciating. Ssorry. Rather sspoiled the moment."

Through the ebbing pain and embarrassment he managed a sort of half-grin,

"And _do_ stop calling me '_sir'...!_"

He pressed his lips against her temple, pulled her closer to wrap his other arm around her slender waist. Christopher held onto her, truly needing her support, nearly pushing her off-balance, again, as he shifted onto his good right leg. It was an even more unstable repeat of their first awkward embrace of the morning. They stood like that awhile, arms around each other as he recovered, enjoying the intimacy of the contact.

Sam had never in her life been so thoroughly manhandled, but he hadn't hurt her, and she admitted to herself that it had been rather thrilling to be so easily picked up and moved about by him. Almost like the more athletic version of the American _'Swing Dance'_ she'd seen back in '43, but wouldn't have dared try.

She was very reluctant to end this physical closeness, and leaned into him willingly, their first full embrace unencumbered by layers of coats or public scrutiny. She didn't wish to make comparisons, but he felt reassuringly substantial, solid and muscled, and his natural scent, intensified by this sudden trauma, she found provocative and almost intoxicating.

But Sam was the first to draw back, concerned for the fatiguing after-effect of the spasm.

"Right." She said, a little shakily,

"Christopher. You need to rest _properly_. Let's get your jacket off and sit you down with your leg elevated."

Sam helped manoeuvre him to his armchair, positioned the ottoman and carefully lifted his leg onto it. She placed a cushion to raise it higher, obliging him to recline against the backrest. Then she knelt down before him and gently, cautiously massaged his thigh through the cloth of his trouser leg. He watched her intently.

Sam looked up, noting his acute interest, and blushed.

Trying to remain businesslike, she stilled her hands and rested them over his knee,

"H-heat first, then cold. Do you have a hot water bottle?"

He nodded, with a twitch of his lips,

"Larder, bottom shelf, I think."

"Tensor bandage?"

"Airing cupboard, upstairs."

"Aspirin? Or - do you have something stronger?"

"No, it's... Well, yes, all right. Check the medicine cabinet."

"And a cup of tea."

"Tea would be lovely." he answered quietly, rather subdued.

His eyes strayed to her hands on his knee, then blinked with disappointment and resignation as she removed them, rising to attend to his other needs.

But she paused, sat on the armrest and looked into his face, saying warningly,

"I know what you're thinking, and I want you to stop. This is a temporary setback. You'll be fit as a fiddle in no time."

Then her fingers were busy slowly pulling off his tie, undoing the remaining buttons of his waistcoat,

"Besides, this is only one of _several reasons_ why we must behave ourselves. And perhaps the _only reason_ likely to stop me ravishing you right here and now."

That brought a half-smile, and he scratched his brow self-consciously.

Sam bent to bestow a lingering kiss, caressing his neck and shoulder inside his shirt,

"Don't go anywhere." She murmured softly, "I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

He held her a moment with his soulful, sky-blue eyes, subtly smiling,

"Can't go anywhere without you."

"Oh...," she smiled back with sudden tears, "...for that you get another kiss."

Twenty minutes later he had his cup of tea, a hot water bottle warming his aching thigh and knee, a tablet beginning to ease his residual discomfort, and Sam, perched cheerfully on the ottoman beside his leg.

The small jeweller's box sat undisturbed on the table, waiting.

tbc...


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

After Sam had prepared and served a light supper, together they had repositioned the ottoman in front of the sofa. Sam had lit the fire in the hearth and put the wireless on low, and she had cosied in close beside him under his right arm again. There was space on the ottoman for both of them to stretch out their legs.

Sam pretended to watch the hearth as Foyle studied her profile - her pale complexion glowing in the lamplight, lips curved in a contented smile, her eyes reflecting the flicker of the fire, and he could hardly believe they were sitting together like this.

She turned with a look through lowered eyelids that let him know she had been aware of his gaze upon her,

"Penny for your thoughts?"

In answer, he leaned over to claim a slow kiss, then explained,  
"That about covers it."

"_Hmm_, I'm of the same mind exactly."

He picked up her hand and traced the lines of her palm with an index finger,

"..._Was_ wondering...something, though. _Em_, _why_ didn't you... return home with your parents ...after the funeral, Sam? Why did you stay in London?"

"Well, I had been staying with the Wainwrights. I... stayed a few weeks more."

"Oh. Andrew... failed to mention that." He commented with a raised eyebrow, watching her sideways from along the length of his shoulder.

"After I left them... well, I knew if I went home to Lyminster, that would be the end of it - Mother and Father would _never let me leave_. I ...made up an excuse for not going home." She looked at him directly and he understood there had been a plan in place.

Foyle bit the inside of his cheek,  
"I see. And... where did you stay...?"

"_Um_, here and there..."

He raised his eyes heavenward at her evasiveness, then studied her face closely,  
"Not... sleeping in jail cells again?"

"No." She said with a slight laugh, but offered no further comment, staring at the fire.

Foyle twitched his lips to the side, but his eyes sparkled as he said quietly,  
"Why do I get the feeling I've been played...?"

Sam bit her lip, and asked innocently,  
"What did Andrew tell you?"

"...Pack of lies, I suspect." He answered agreeably.

She frowned, feeling genuine guilt for the deception,  
"I _knew_ we should have coordinated our stories! Please don't be annoyed. He was only trying to help ..._us_."

"_Hmm_. So you weren't ...moving from place to place, week to week, like a gypsy?"

She squeezed his fingers, remorseful for causing him any worry,  
"No, Christopher. I was quite comfortable, staying in a flat belonging to Andrew's friend, who was out of town. Shouldn't you be glad of that?" She appealed.

"I should. And I am. Glad that you were safe. And comfortable."

She made a heartfelt plea,  
"Well, it was all Andrew's doing, so he really should be let off the hook."

"Believe _I'm_ the one who was on the hook..."  
He smiled ruefully, then gave her a conciliatory kiss on the cheek.

Sam distracted him from further brooding on the matter with a more amorous advance, drawing him towards her with a hand around the back of his head, pressing her mouth on his, teasing her way in with the tip of her tongue. She noted the distraction worked well - his brow smoothed and he became fully engaged in the kiss, his breathing slowing and his hand caressing her hair.

She had a question of her own, murmured by his ear as he moved his lips down her neck.

"You said to me..., earlier, ...that you'd loved me 'a long time.' When _did_ you fall in love with me, Christopher...?"

Drawing his lips between his teeth, he reluctantly suspended his exploration of her clavicle and sat back to give consideration to the query.

"Oh... Well, it wasn't _definite_... for _quite_ some time."

"Oh. No?" She sounded disappointed, and a little crease furrowed her own brow.

"No, not at all. Suppose, _er_... thought I _might_ just... be in love with you ...the moment you walked into my office and saluted me so smartly."

That remark cheered her up and she smiled at him as he continued,

"Then..._er_, believe it became a _permanent condition_..._ di-rrectly_ after the incident with the dustbin lid." He turned to aim the full force of his eyes at her, then added,

"...But for the forty-five minutes in between? Thought you were a damned nuisance, really."

She felt ridiculously pleased at that, grinning broadly, and she curled up against him contentedly, drawing up her legs on the sofa and stretching an arm across his middle.

After a while she offered,  
"Well, ..._Ssir_," she said, deliberately stressing the honorific. "I've been in love with you _much_ longer, it would seem..." Nodding her head as it rested against his chest, she explained,

"_Mmm_...the look on your face, when I stepped into your office... You see, Sergeant Rivers had wound me up, painted you as the worst sort of martinet. I was really quite nervous. But when you looked up at me from behind the typewriter, ...your expression... was like a boy who couldn't quite take in that he'd gotten a brand new bicycle on Christmas morning."

Foyle raised his brows and quietly cleared his throat,  
"Well, ...you were entirely unexpected. Never had female representation at the Station before. ...Can assure you I wasn't thinking of bicycles..."

He turned, took her by the shoulders and gently lowered her to lie across his lap, her head on the cushioned armrest,

"...Think perhaps it's time... I unwrapped that Christmas present..._hmm_?"

Still amused by her recollection, Sam looked up at him with curiosity, then her eyes widened as he began unbuttoning her blouse. With a sudden blush she bit her lip, and watched in fascination as his fingers carefully and slowly made their way down her front, then spread open the first layer of clothing.

One side of Foyle's mouth quirked up in satisfaction as he found that the short peach-coloured camisole revealed below her blouse also had a front closure, of small iridescent shell buttons. His fingers were surprisingly adept at working the thin disks through the tiny buttonholes, especially given that Sam's chest was now rising and falling measurably. Lips parted, she now fixed on his eyes unwaveringly, and he seemed entirely focussed on his task. With the second layer breached and laid open, the last remaining barrier was a matching, soft cup, French cotton lace brassiere, which conveniently had detachable shoulder straps.

Christopher tilted his head slightly as he unhooked the left strap, gently smiling, then his eyes glided up to Sam's.

He lifted an eyebrow, and when she slowly blinked her approval, he folded down the lace and gazed at her creamy breast. He ran his tongue over his lower lip in anticipation, then with one hand underneath her back, raised up her otherwise limp form as he bent his head to take nearly her entire breast, small and pert as it was, into his mouth. Sam's eyes rolled back at the sensation as he slid his warm, wet and supple tongue up the rapidly rising peak of her nipple. He circled it, teased it, drew it gently up against the roof of his mouth, and Sam sighed an inarticulate moan. Christopher hummed his appreciative pleasure against her flesh, then with a last kiss of her hardened nipple, he lowered her onto his lap again, sat up, sat back, and covered her breast with the cotton lace, resting his hand over it. He shut his eyes a moment to savour the experience, then proudly surveyed the effect his attentions had had on Samantha.

Sam was blissfully incapacitated, and only realized he had no further designs on her when she felt his fingers refastening the brassiere strap and drawing her camisole closed. She dragged her eyes open and frowned in mute protest. Her right breast ached to feel the same sensation that her left had enjoyed, yet he was closing the buttons of her cami, pulling the sides of her blouse together, and buttoning that, too. All this despite the hard evidence of his keen interest pushing up insistently from below against her ribcage. She only managed to put an arresting hand over his when he was doing up the last few buttons.

He smiled down at her, a mischievous gleam in his eye,  
"We're on short rations, darling. Mustn't get carried away."

"Wha-? But, it wouldn't matter if we-. Couldn't we just...?" But he was shaking his head,

"_Nnot_ recommended. Don't want to incite a riot. Nor a breach of the peace."

She stared up at him, cheeks aflame, her mouth open, but now half-pleading, half-indignant,  
"You- you can't... _do that_. Get me all hot and bothered. And then stop!"

With a crooked smile, he countered,

"Just did. Want to make sure I'm not the _only one_ anxious for those answers. _Very_ anxious."

"I- I hope you don't think _I'm not_."

He ran his hand provocatively up her thigh and hip to her waist, and her stomach did a swoop.

"We're still on our best behaviour, Miss Stewart."

She frowned petulantly, and threw the honorific at him,

"Yes, _Ssir_."

Sam crossed her wrists on her front and blatantly massaged her breasts to assuage the ache he'd created. Christopher almost grinned, and turned away, eyes scanning towards the dining room chandelier, tongue in cheek, pretending not to notice.

Studying him in some perplexity, she realized it was nearly the same expression he'd adopted when the boy, Tony, had cut short their first, very pleasant, dinner together by following them out of the restaurant onto the pavement and asking her to a dance at the Palais. She had been puzzled and torn, then, that he'd shown no sign of being affronted or embarrassed, but had seemed to find the situation risible, at his own expense.

Was this, now, some sort of mild revenge for all those times when other, younger men had approached her, assumed _he_ was not in contention for her favour, and she had done nothing to correct that assumption?

Or was it for a more recent slight, and he was getting his own back for the deception she and Andrew had played on him?

What he had just done - that he had _stopped_ doing it - _had_ felt rather like an act of revenge... _Hmm, 'still waters..._,' she thought to herself.

As acts of revenge went, she hadn't minded it at all...

In fact, it had been rather wonderful, beyond anything in her previous experience. Again she swooned a little at the thought of it, then pressed her lips together, trying to hide her smile.

"...Cup of tea, darling, before bed?" Christopher suggested innocently, patting her knee.

Sam looked up at him in mock resentment,  
"_Separate_ beds, I suppose?"

He gave a quick nod,

"Absolutely. Separate _rooms_. Mmight even lock you in."

Smiling to herself, she sat up, put a hand on his shoulder to push away from him as she stood, and muttered,  
"You'll jolly well have to, after that."

Sam picked up the little jeweller's box from the low table and set it conspicuously on the centre of the mantlepiece. She gave him a pointed look, and Foyle saw her eyes were sparkling as she walked a little unsteadily towards the kitchen.

tbc...


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

**A/N:** I've done some revisions to Chapter 14, so if you haven't re-read it since it was first posted, you might want to go back and do that. :o)

* * *

Sam lay in the narrow bed in Andrew's room, quite awake in the low lamplight, and mused over the remarkable day. To think that she had left London only that morning, with all her worldly possessions, and now was here, in Hastings, in his house again, and at last beginning the life she felt she was meant to live - with him. Her Mr. Foyle - now, her own Christopher. In her heart of hearts, she had always believed they would be together - it was the only thing that made sense to her, after all those years so close to him during the War. Their working partnership had always been... more than just work.

She felt she knew him well, that she understood his character, his essential nature - yet of course she had much more to learn, under these new circumstances; much more to discover as they entered into a closer, more personal, and intimate relationship. In that regard he had surprised, perhaps even confused her this evening.

She thought they had agreed, as implied by his not actually proposing to her, that there would be nothing of 'that sort' between them, certainly for the next week, and perhaps for some time longer. And so she had backed off when she had inadvertently aroused him by massaging his thigh, and yet he had... _oh, god, what he had done to her!_ The sensuality of it was a revelation, and there was the element of careful control, of mastery... Again, she didn't like to make comparisons, but her previous experiences, as a married woman, had been generally rather rushed and less than thrilling. If this had been a small foretaste of what could be expected...

Sam smiled a secret smile to herself, 'Foretaste, indeed.' She felt as if he'd sampled her body like an after-dinner mint. Exercising moderation - in love-making - as she knew he did in all things...

Rolling onto her side facing the door, Sam wondered how _he_ was, behind his own bedroom door, much as she had done back in 1940, when he'd allowed her to stay here for a few days.

He had been a model of propriety, perhaps even a little uncomfortable at her presence, but he had made her feel both welcome and appreciated. She had made one mistake, at the time, during breakfast on their second morning together, in remarking how convenient it was for them _both_, having the car at the door. She really_ hadn't_ meant it as a hint that she'd like to stay longer. He'd given her one of his disapproving yet indulgent looks.

Had he really thought of her as a sort of niece, back then? Tried to, perhaps. Now he'd confessed to being in love with her from the very first day...

She frowned mildly. He'd certainly hidden it well.

Did that mean his love for her was something he could... put to one side? Something he could keep in a separate box, as Andrew had described to her during their brief romantic affair? Yet, Andrew had more recently told her he believed that was a habit, a coping strategy, his father had begun _after_ the death of his wife... His_ beloved_ wife.

With a worried sigh Sam resettled her head, tucked a hand under the feather pillow, and her fingertips brushed against paper - curious, she raised herself up on an elbow, lifted the edge of the pillow and found a small envelope, with her name written on it in a fine script.

Unsealing it, she drew out a slip of folded paper, to which something more was attached by a loop of pale green silk ribbon.

The object gleamed and sparkled in the lamplight - a delicate silver charm bracelet, bearing a single charm: a heart.

Her eyes glowing, she unfolded the handwritten note, and read - a poem:

:

_Dearest Samantha,_

_ How Shall I Woo?_

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : :(Thomas Moore)

_If I speak to thee in friendship's name,  
__Thou think'st I speak too coldly;  
__If I mention Love's devoted flame,  
__Thou say'st I speak too boldly.  
__Between these two unequal fires  
__Why doom me thus to hover?  
__I'm a friend, if such thy heart requires,  
__If more thou seek'st, a lover.  
__Which shall it be? How shall I woo?  
__Fair one, choose between the two._

_: : :_

_If neither feeling suits thy heart,  
__Let's see, to please thee, whether  
__We may not learn some precious art  
__To mix their charms together;  
__One feeling, still more sweet, to form  
__From two so sweet already -  
__A friendship that like love is warm,  
__A love like friendship steady.  
__Thus let it be, thus let me woo,  
__Dearest, thus we'll join the two.*_

Yours,

: : : if you'll have me,

: : : : : : : : Christopher

Reading over the poem several times, Sam held the backs of her fingers to her smiling lips, blinking back tears of happiness. No one had ever given her a poem before. And it was really quite a perfect choice. Gazing up towards the door, she was so tempted to go to him, now, but knew she mustn't. Instead she fastened the bracelet around her wrist, kissed his name written below the poem and held the paper to her heart as she settled down on the pillow again. Eventually she reached out to turn off the lamp.

* * *

The next morning Foyle was at the kitchen table, considerably better rested than yesterday, freshly shaved and fully dressed, if not buttoned-down, in a comfortable old shirt, a knitted woollen waistcoat and soft corduroy trousers. He sipped a second cup of tea, reading the morning paper.

Sam had thanked him very sweetly for the poem and the silver bracelet, had already telephoned the doctor's and had set an appointment for an examination the next day. A few minutes ago she had stepped outside to further explore the features of the new Wolseley and bring in the owner's handbook and instruction manual to read.

He took the opportunity of her brief absence to limp to the telephone and place a call to a local flower shop, only to find that particular shop had closed a year ago. The Operator assisted him with the number of another location, and he found success. He _had_ intended, yesterday, to bring flowers to the train station, but the re-injury to his knee had thrown his plans awry. Now he returned to the table pleased and anticipating another happy surprise for Sam, and sat contemplating the events of the past day.

Last night, after their tea, they _had_ 'behaved themselves,' and agreed on an early night. Sam's sensible attitude over his leg injury had reduced his worry over appearing frail or weak in her eyes. Her remark about 'ravishing him' - he smiled at that again - as well as her enchanting response to the delightful liberty he'd taken, had allayed his concerns over what she might expect - or rather, his fears of what she might _not_ expect - from him as a suitor, a lover and a husband. And for now, he assumed, all such pressures and anticipations would be set aside until his leg had improved and her generative status was known.

The question of how to approach Reverend and Mrs. Stewart could also be put to one side for the time being, apparently, as Sam had not mentioned it since their talk.

It was all for the best, he told himself, rationally, and turned a page of the newspaper. Simply adjusting to each other - in this new way - was enough to occupy themselves for the week.

However, he did have nagging concerns as to 'appearances.' He believed the excuse of his injuries could serve as a credible defense for Sam living under his roof for a while, but that would not stand up to scrutiny once he was fully recovered. And it was likely that he _would be_, long before they could hope to marry. He admitted to himself, with a twist of his lips, that he wasn't above 'faking it' for a prolonged period and even exaggerating his disability for the benefit of the neighbours. He would find it very difficult to give up Sam _again_, even for a brief period of time, now that he had her back and on these terms.

* * *

Sam returned from her exploration of the Wolseley in less than fifteen minutes, walking into the kitchen with a bundle in her hands. Her light reddish-golden hair softly curling to frame her face, she had dressed in a simple pale pink blouse, a short Fair Isle jumper - the new charm bracelet was now her favourite accessory - and a comfortable pair of heather-grey wool trousers, as they had no plans to venture out after yesterday's excitement.

As she moved through the doorway, Foyle, with a tilt of his head, openly admired her figure, thinking the length of her legs and the shape of... other parts were wonderfully emphasized by the cut of the garment.

"Christopher...," Catching the direction and the warmth of his gaze she faltered mid-step, smiled self-consciously, then continued in an easy tone,

"...We may, _um_, have a problem with the car..."

"Oh, what's that?" He adjusted his thoughts, concerned.

"I was just having a look at the toolkit in the boot-."

"Sam. Really wouldn't expect _you_ to do repairs..."

She laughed,

"No. But when I _opened_ the kit, look what I found in it..."

He set his newspaper and cup aside as she untied the cord and unrolled the stiff new canvas folder across the kitchen table for him to view. Tucked into the pockets behind each tool were neatly rolled wads of banknotes.

"I haven't counted them."

Foyle surveyed the find with interest, eyebrows raised,

"Oh. _Hmm_. What'd'you think, Sam? Criminal activity? Or... did Mrs. Dunlop's husband simply not trust the banks?"

"Difficult to say." She sat in the chair opposite him.

"Anything else unexpected?"

"I stopped looking when I found this. I'll look again -." She half-rose, offering to go.

"No-no, don't trouble yourself just yet."

Foyle stroked his chin, gazing at the contents of the canvas roll,

"Bit of a conundrum. If Mrs. Dunlop didn't know it was there, she'll be rather surprised when we call to tell her."

"Gambling profits, perhaps?"

"Mmore likely to hide his _losses_ than his winnings, wouldn't he? Well, perhaps not." He smiled, then added,

"...You know, I'm sure I've met Mrs. Dunlop before... I just can't place where or how."

"I suppose you've met almost everyone in Hastings, at one time or another."

Foyle gave a short grunt of a laugh,

"Almost."

"This may not have been put there by her husband. Didn't she say she had a son?"

"Yep. Old enough to drive. Not old enough to be independent of his mother."

"Should we try to contact him?"

"Or _wait_... until he, or an associate, comes looking for the car. Could be a young man mixed up in some trouble."

"I wonder if he knew his mother planned to sell the car."

"Well, our friend at the Library - the niece? - said he'd brought her the notice."

"Oh, yes. Perhaps he thought it wouldn't sell quite so quickly...?"

Foyle carefully raised up an end of the canvas to look across the surface of the gleaming drop-forged stainless steel tools, and speculated,

"Or... this could have been left by some associate of the late Mr. Dunlop... Did you touch these spanners, Sam?"

"I don't think I did. Why?"

"There are some _very_ clear fingerprints. Possibly left by the person who, _er,_ 'deposited' the money."

She said with resignation,

"Shall we take all of this into the station, then?"

But Foyle shook his head,

"No... They'd most likely impound the car, which would be inconvenient. I'm inclined to wait and see what develops."

"And if nothing develops?" She grinned, touching a fingertip to a roll of banknotes.

He suppressed a smile, with a twitch of his lips,

"Well, certainly not _our_ money to keep-. In that case we'd start with Mrs. Dunlop… find out what her husband's line of work was... What her son does... His associates..."

"Perhaps there's been a bank robbery! Might be news about that, on the wireless or in the paper."

He nodded,

"Nnothing in today's paper, but, _er_ -. "

She looked up at him with an eager expression,

"Shall we count it?"

"_Em_..., with gloves on, Sam. Try not to disturb the tools. One pocket at a time. And, _er_, I'll take the fingerprint impressions."

"You've got the equipment to do that?" Sam asked, surprised.

He only smiled in answer.

* * *

They were nearly finishing up, having counted, and replaced in the pockets, a total sum of five hundred fifty-seven pounds in a variety of denominations. Foyle was considering whether or not to bother taking the fingerprints on the spanners when there was a knock at the door. They looked at each other.

"Shall I get that?"

"No, Sam, in case it's someone already come in search of the cash. Wrap that up again and just, _er_, hide it in the larder for a moment."

On the step Foyle found a plain-clothed Detective Sergeant, and on the pavement saw a uniformed Constable waiting by a car parked just behind his own. The Sergeant was half-turned away, contemplating the Wolseley.

"Ah, good morning - McFadden, isn't it?"

The officer saluted out of habit and respect for the former Chief,

"Morning, Mr. Foyle. This is your car, sir?"

"It is, Sergeant, as of yesterday. I take it you have some information for me. Do come in." They stood talking in the front room, Foyle leaning on his cane, the policeman consulting his notebook. Sam kept out of the way, still in the kitchen.

"Oh, _er_, we were all sorry to hear of your accident, sir. Looks like you're on the mend, though."

Foyle gave a brief smile, and the sergeant bent his head to read from his notes, then raised his head again,

"If I may ask, what made you suspicious of the vehicle ownership, sir?"

"_Mm_...well, seemed unusual for the woman to wish to sell a brand new car so soon after her husband had purchased it. But, _em_, she later said there were ...unhappy associations. Seemed genuine."

"Very good, sir. ...The car belonged to Mr. Alan Dunlop, all right. His wife - widow, I should say - was entitled to sell it. No problem there, sir. However, the car was identified as being at the scene during a raid on a black market operation at Bulverhythe on September 12th. It wasn't definitely linked to the crime, and neither Mr. Dunlop nor his wife were present. In fact, we don't know why it happened to be there."

Foyle suppressed his instinct to ask the usual prompting questions, and didn't offer any suggestions. The Sergeant regarded him expectantly, but the older man merely nodded.

"_Um_, officers on scene searched the car, but found nothing. The vehicle was pristine."

"Still is, Sergeant."

"Yes, I can see that, sir."

"Is the case closed?" Foyle asked in a pleasant, hopeful tone.

The policeman scratched the back of his neck with a forefinger,

"No, sir. We believe we could close the case with a little more evidence, but, _er_, we haven't located the cash that we had expected to be on hand... We searched the offices and outbuildings thoroughly, as well as two other vehicles on the scene - registered to the suspects. We know a quantity of cash should have been there, because we arrested not only the perpetrators, but their most recent customer. He's been cooperating in exchange for a reduced sentence. He insists he had just paid the accused over two hundred pounds - in cash."

Foyle again merely nodded, his free hand in his pocket, but after a moment, offered,

"Would you like to search the car again? You're welcome to it."

The man smiled with relief,

"Well, yes, if you don't mind, sir. In case we missed something."

"You won't, _er_... tear up the carpets, cut open the upholstery, I trust?"

"No, not at all, sir."

"Well, that's fine. I'll just get you the keys."

He made his way to the kitchen, where Sam handed him the car keys silently, but with a wide-eyed look, wondering what he was playing at. He gave her a knowing, half-smile, then winked.

After the door closed on the officer, Sam came forward, puzzled and concerned, whispering,

"Christopher... Isn't this what's called 'obstructing a police officer'?"

"Not at all. I've given him full access to the car, and he may find something else. He might even notice the toolkit missing. I'm just not going to do his job for him. Clearly _someone_ didn't search the car thoroughly the first time. And... I can use what _you_ found as a bargaining chip with his superior officer to not have the car impounded."

She frowned, not entirely convinced,

"But... aren't you 'wasting his time'? That's an offence."

Foyle made a considering face,

"They've wasted their own time not searching the boot _properly_. The black marketeer's been put out of business, in any case. No..., I'll give Hugh Reid a call later today. I should think he'll be amused."

"Yes..., I expect so..." She walked back into the kitchen, still troubled, and he heard the sounds of washing up.

Foyle limped blithely to the sitting room window to observe the search through a gap in the net curtains, but noticed, as the disappointed constable closed the boot, that the sergeant put a consoling hand on the younger man's shoulder.

McFadden soon knocked again, and returned the keys to Foyle with a frown of frustration creasing his brow.

"Nothing at all, sir. Thanks for the opportunity. Sorry to trouble you..."

Sensing his hesitation, Foyle asked,

"Anything else, McFadden?"

"Well, sir, if you don't mind - if you have any advice, or suggestions on the matter? You see, not to tell tales out of school, but the new Chief of Detective Branch is... rather a hands-off sort of bloke, _er_, not what you'd call a mentor, exactly..."

"I see." Foyle rubbed his temple, hesitating, pivoted slightly towards the kitchen and back. With a small grimace he made the decision to take pity on the man, and relented,

"Well, call your constable in. Let's discuss the facts and evidence you _do_ have. See what we can figure out, _eh_?"

"Thank-you, sir!"

As the sergeant went to the door again, a repentant Foyle approached the kitchen just a little sheepishly,

"Can we get them some tea, Sam...?"

She beamed at him,

"Kettle's already on. - Sir."

"Enough of that. I've resigned. _And_ retired."

He pursed his lips in mock annoyance, then added with a warm, 'you win' glance,

"Come through when it's ready."

The men went over the notes compiled on the case, and Foyle made a number of remarks and suggestions. When Sam brought tea for the four of them, the visitors on the settee jumped to their feet in surprise, having expected a middle-aged housekeeper.

"...You may remember my driver, Miss Stewart. Now, _er_, Mrs. Wainwright."

Sam smiled a winning smile,

"Good morning, Sergeant, Constable. How are things at the Station?" She handed the three men their cups and took her own and settled into the other chair by the hearth.

"Well, it's quite different, actually, Mrs. Wainwright. You see, we've got plenty of men back from the Forces now, but, well, many of them are still adjusting. From Army life and from their... experiences."

The young constable put in cheerfully,

"I'll say. The other day a car backfired in the street and nearly the whole Station dived down onto the floor! It was almost-." He stopped and cleared his throat as he saw no one else was amused.

After a few more minutes of pleasantries, Foyle brought the conversation back to the business at hand, and he asked for clarification on some points,

"You say there were five men on the scene? Who was the fifth, the one not taken into custody?"

The constable answered, in an attempt to regain his professional status,

"That was William Lamb, sir. Only sixteen. Seemed he just happened to be there, at the wrong place at the wrong time, an ordinary customer."

Foyle frowned and tilted his head, as if recalling something,

"You took his address?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you search him?"

The policemen exchanged a glance, and the constable answered,

"No, sir. He was a pimply, slight, skinny boy. You could _see_ he hadn't anything on 'im."

Foyle sat back in his chair and scratched his ear thoughtfully,

"Sergeant, have you heard of a local, long-time petty thief, his 'friends' called him 'The Goat'?"

McFadden searched his memory,

"Billy... _Lamb_. Penny's dropped, sir. This is his son? But Billy's been in the Forces - Army, I think."

"D'you know how he got_ into_ the Army? Early release in '39. He'd done two years of a three year sentence for assault and theft. Sent to France. His wife..." Foyle paused mid-sentence as his eyes registered a recollected fact.

"...had divorced him after he was jailed the second time, but they had a son. Billy will likely have been demobbed by now."

"And in contact with his son. We'll go to the son's address and interview him. Thank-you, sir."

The man nodded to his constable and rose to his feet. Sam gave Foyle a significant look, and he rolled his eyes in defeat. As he opened his mouth to confess, she spoke up,

"Sergeant McFadden, did you check the boot? Because I've just remembered, I brought the Wolseley's toolkit in earlier... to inventory the tools..."

Foyle interrupted, with a show of serious concern,

"Did you, Sam? I had no idea you'd removed anything from the car." He hid his smirk from the policemen.

"Well, you know, I still love to tinker on a car's engine! Not that this one will need any tinkering for a long while, but, _em_... Well, I haven't even opened it! I'll fetch it for you."

"Oh, I'm sure that won't be..." McFadden said, but then sank down into his seat again.

Sam returned and placed the neatly-rolled and tied toolkit on his lap,

"There you are." And picked up the tea tray to escape to the kitchen. Standing alert at the sink, she heard their exclamations of surprise, then adjusted her features and rejoined the men.

"Have you found something? Oh, gosh! There must be hundreds! What a piece of luck! I'm so glad we could help. Just like old times, Mr. Foyle! Well, I expect you'll want to be on your way, dust for fingerprints and all that."

Sam got the two policemen, slightly bewildered but re-energized and happy, nearly out the door, until Foyle called the sergeant back from his chair,

"McFadden...!"

The officer returned, smiling,

"Yes, sir?"

Foyle had got up and now came across the room to stand by his former colleague,

"Been, _um_, trying to place where I'd met Mrs. Dunlop before. She's the boy's mother, William's mother. She was married to Billy Lamb. ...That's how the car's tied in to the case. You mmight want to look into the death of Alan Dunlop, on the off-chance Billy had anything to do with it."

McFadden had opened his mouth in surprise, nodded his understanding, and held out his hand,

"Thank-you _very_ much, sir. That's pretty much cracked the case for us. I'm very grateful, Mr. Foyle."

"Glad to help. _Er_..., any time."

They shook hands, then Sam saw the two policemen out the door, calling cheerfully down the steps,

"Let us know when we can have the toolkit back!"

As she closed the door, Sam dropped her head back and stared at the ceiling with a huff of relief. Before she could turn, Christopher was behind her, an arm around her waist and his lips by her ear, admitting,

"Sorry. You were right. They needed a bit of help."

"Well, I've always known you to be a _kind_ man, Christopher. And a clever one."

She turned in his embrace, putting her arms around him, and said with a sympathetic look,

"I'm sure it's frustrating to have your former career pursue you into your own home, but..."

He twitched his mouth,

"_Hmm_. Still, I think Hugh would have enjoyed it."

Sam widened her eyes at him,

"Or had you up on charges for withholding evidence. And where would that leave me!?"

She gave him a peck on the lips, then seemed content to change the subject,

"How's your knee? Care for some heat... or ice...?"

Christopher drew her closer, murmuring,

"Plenty of heat right here..."

Sam blushed and grinned shyly, then lifted a hand to stroke his temple with the backs of her fingers, arching an eyebrow,

"Luckily, there's ice up here -. Cooler heads will prevail...?"

His low laugh rumbled against her neck.

tbc...

* * *

**Note:** * I've left out the middle stanza of Thomas Moore's poem, which explores the differing natures of friendship and love.


End file.
